


In a Room with God and the Devil

by popup_potato



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gore, Kidnapping, M/M, Physical Abuse, i will leave individual tags for each chapter so that ya don't get any nasty surprises, psychostriders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2018-09-28 17:09:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10140899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popup_potato/pseuds/popup_potato
Summary: Basically just another psychostrider kinda fic to add to the list of many others, oops.The gist of things is that Dave and Bro are hit men. Dave is obsessed with a boy named John, so he takes (what he would like to call) mercy on him when his name appears on the list. Thus kidnapping John. The story spans over the time that John spends together with the two killers, doing his damnedst to survive.





	1. Fragments

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so super duper self-indulgent fic that I have been wanting to write for a while, but y'know. Never got around to. But I finally got started!!! It'll be hella gross, so watch out for that. It's one of those cliches about "psycho kidnapping someone and then shit ensues", but I have always had a soft spot for those stories. I like them, honestly. And so I wanted to try and write one of my own. Likely, it'll be filled with plot holes and stuff, but I'll see how it goes,,,
> 
> The first chapter is basically just a introduction of the characters, the scenario, and all that jazz― in other words, hella boring. But I always feel like I gotta start somewhere concrete to get a good push off, ya feel? But yeah, that means no actual warnings for this chapter, it's just stupid dialogue and rushed scenes that I wrote up in the span of a day, so it's likely filled with mistakes, oopsi. 
> 
> I'll edit and add to this story as I go― hope you enjoy! :D
> 
> Oh, and for good measure: John is 16, Dave 17, and Bro is 32.

There were footsteps approaching. They were light, barely audible, and only within hearing due to how every second ‘tap’ was followed by a heavier clinking noise. The latter sound was too loud for it not to be intentional― whoever was coming wanted him to know that. John listened intently, anticipation building with each step towards the door; the door he had been watching for the last two hours. At least it felt like hours, he couldn’t be sure. Without any windows in the room, it was near impossible to make out time, and he had given up on counting the seconds when he had reached the count of fifteen minutes. It had seemed pointless by that point, and so had panicking. He knew he had spent a good time hyperventilating, which had been the moment he lost track of time, and that he had rattled the doorknob only to find it locked. The realization hadn’t stopped him from continually pulling at the thing. Eventually, he had decided that that was a waste of effort as well. The room he was in was small, despite being able to stand up straight. He could reach each end by simply holding out his arms, and even then his elbows would have to bend a little. It was likely not an actual room, more like a closet. But the lack of a hanging rack and shelves had him second guess that, too. One thing was certain; it was cramped, claustrophobic, and dark. John had felt around the ceiling in search of a light source, but found nothing. All the walls, the top, and the bottom were naked. There was nothing, and he was alone― safe for the footsteps drawing ever nearer. 

The doorknob rattled, but it was not by John’s hand. His breath stuck in his throat, and he pushed himself flat to the back of the closet, his heart rising in his chest when he recognized the clinking noise from before as keys. There was a ‘click’ and the door opened. Though the light that washed over him was dim, it was bright in comparison to the darkness he had grown accustomed to. A silhouette stood in the opening, taking up most of John’s view. Squinting, he tried to make out the person. Without his glasses, it was a blur. John had not the time to actually adjust to the new level of light and the presence before him, because the silhouette moved without warning. A hand wrapped around his arm, dragging him out of the closet. His legs were tired and stiff from standing up for so long, unable to move, and they could not keep up with the pace that arm set. He stumbled, tripping over his own feet, and with only one hand free to take for the fall, his knees crashed against the floor. 

“Fuck― What the hell?” John was not pleased with the pitch of his voice, but he blamed it on the jolt running up his legs from impact with the ground. In truth, the squeak was more due to fear. A hand was still shackled around his lower arm, keeping it raised in the air. He looked up, even more unlikely to be able to make out the face of the person from the new angle. What he could see were the most prominent features; a slender neck, sharp jawlines, a long nose that stuck out, and most distinguishable; the two round, black eyes. In his right mind, John recognized them as sunglasses. The shaded individual said nothing, but their head was inclined downwards. John tried his voice once more; “What’s going on? Who the fuck are you? What is― Would you let go of my arm already?” 

His voice raised for other reasons than fear then, and the stranger did not take kindly to it. The grip on his arm tightened momentarily, and he felt ragged nails dig into his skin. “Ow! Let me go, you―” He did not get out the last words. Before he could state his demand, the hand on him relented and drew back, and he practically slumped against the floor as his arm dropped. John stared up at the other person in the room; an actual room. Looking around fleetingly, it was much larger than the other and resembled that of a bedroom. There was a desk, a bed in the corner, shelves, and windows with the curtains drawn, but a small amount of light was peeking through the edges. A soft, warm light, low in intensity. It was the rising sun. 

John fidgeted in his spot. He did not know what to say or what was going on, and that alone made him tongue tied. Clearly, he was in no control of the situation, it all belonged to the tall figure before him. John’s position on the floor, kneeling and looking up, amplified this power dynamic, and it felt like a heavy weight on his shoulders. Despite that, his shoulders were still drawn up high. The person moved, their knees bending, and they crouched down in front of John. No words left their mouth, but they came close enough that John could see the characteristic edges of a masculine face― or what was about to become one; there were still soft edges to it. John saw his own mirrored reflection in the boy’s sunglasses as well. He looked like hell. There was a dark bruise blossoming beneath his right eye, reaching down half of his cheek, and his hair was matted with sweat and something thicker. He guessed the latter to be blood, because there was a dry streak of red coming from his temples. It was carelessly wiped away, leaving only traces left, but the scabs of crimson still drew a clear outline of the blood flow. His shirt was no longer smooth and ironed, but creased and dirty with dark stains. 

Hands reached for John, and he flinched back, opening his mouth to protest. But the words remained in his throat as the world became clarified; the familiar weight of his glasses settled on the bridge of his nose, and he saw everything clearer. The boy before him used a single finger to push the black frames further up John’s nose, and then he got back to his feet. Standing like a giant. John had to crane his neck to be able to look him in the face. Neither of them said a word. John was waiting for the other to break the silence, but who knew what the boy was thinking. His expression was hard to read with those sunglasses taking up half of his face. Behind those dark lenses, eyes were roaming over the boy on the floor, John could feel it. Like bugs crawling over his skin, making him shiver, and he found the need to end the quiet before it became too noticeable. 

“Who are you?” That question prompted a response out of the stranger, though it was non-verbal. He cocked his head to the side, his pale brows knitting together, and John knew with absolute certainty that he was staring right at him. “What is this?” John asked, anxiety edging its way into his voice. 

“I thought you’d be smart enough to put two-and-two together.” The boy was monotone in his speech, no pitch or rumble to give away his state of mind. “Suppose I got to draw it all out for you, which I don’t mind, really. But I would have hoped to spare the time. I’m on a tight schedule as is, and you put it in a corset to make it all the tighter.” 

“What?” The oddity of the previously silent man suddenly changing into someone with a full vocabulary took John off guard. At least he was getting something to work with, though. With cautious movements, he pushed to be standing up. It did little to level their difference in height, but John did not have to strain his neck to look the other in the face as he came to just below his chin. He felt more at ease like this, if he could feel anything resembling to peace at all in his situation. Fragments of memories about how he had found himself in the closet came to mind, but he had trouble putting them all together. His head was elsewhere, much too focused on the boy in front of him. He tensed as the other moved to sit down on the bed, his steps as slow as John’s movements had been. As he walked, that clinking noise sounded again. In the belt loop of the boy’s pants hung a bundle of keys, all rusted and some even with broken teeth. Their positions were changed when the stranger sat down, his hands coming together in his lap, and John saw a glint of scarlet eyes peek out above the shades. He froze, and a stunned expression flashed across his face. By the twitch of the boy’s lip, he caught on to it. 

“I‘m not a demon, if that’s what you’re thinking. If anything, I’m more of a guardian angel. _Your_ guardian angel, to be exact, which I really would prefer. It would make all of this go much smoother, as I know you’re probably just dying to hear about this whole predicament of yours. Fear not, I’m here to guide you through all of it. Be the one to show you the ropes, bring you down memory lane, and―” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” John’s voice cut through, anger swelling within him. The tension was poking at his nerves, making his heart pick up speed, and he was scared. Confused. And he could not find a logical reasoning behind his situation, so he turned to anger in the face of fear. “Did you bring me here? What is this? What the hell―” The boy brought a hand up, palm open, and the speed in which he moved had John flinch back. He looked too pleased with John’s reaction, his voice taking on a lighter note.

  
”Chill. You’ve been repeating the same question, like, five times already. I’m telling you, I’m going to give you the lay of the land. If you can keep your mouth shut and not interrupt me, that is,” the boy said with the hint of a smirk. “I really would appreciate it.” 

John pursed his lips, eyes narrowing as he glared at the other; he was so casual in his approach and words, it was infuriating. John did not know exactly how long he had spent inside of that closet, but it was long enough for him to have a panic attack and calm down, which took more than just a few minutes. Yet this stranger was chattering like it was nothing, having the audacity to joke around while John was obviously uncomfortable. He wondered if it was deliberate, or if the guy had trouble reading people’s social cues. No matter what, it was no excuse. John balled his fists by his sides, removing his eyes from the boy and looking around the room. The boy took this as a prompt for him to continue. 

“You got here five hours ago,” he began. “You were completely out of it, of course. Couldn’t say or do shit, which made getting your ass up the stairs quite the hassle, but hey. We managed. Though you also managed to drool your way through my shirt at one point, had to go change before coming in to see you. Which, by the way, sorry for the close quarters. Bro said to tie you down, but I thought nah, that would be uncomfortable, seeing as I honestly had no idea how long you were going to be out for. I’ve tried using chloroform on people a few times before, but apparently the k.o. time all depends on height, weight, and all that jazz. I don’t bother with that shit. Bro on the other hand, he does, but hadn’t. It was kind of an impulsive decision on my part, so I guess that plays into the whole― Hey, what’s with that face?” 

John staggered back as if the memories physically hit him. The fragments were coming together, the image of the puzzle becoming clear in his head. 

_He remembered the couch. He had been residing on it when the sound of tires on gravel had alerted him to his father’s arrival, but the alarm had not been enough to get him to leave his seat. It was expected, his father was a punctual man who always came on time, and he had told John he would be gone for fours days; leaving Thursday and arriving home on Sunday evening, six o'clock sharp. And so he did. The digital clock on his phone had struck 05:56 pm. Bothering to get up was beyond him, and so he remained seated, watching the screen flick between scenes in some cheesy cop show. The clock struck 06:10. The unusual wait between the sound of the car pulling into the driveway and the door opening had drawn John’s attention. He had craned his neck to look at the door, just as he heard the mundane creak of its hinges opening― he had told his father time and time again to fix it; clearly he had yet to do so. Still, the familiar sound had eased John back into his seat, leaning back comfortably._

_“Hey dad, brought back a souvenir this time?” Footsteps had approached, someone on light feet, barely audible. He had only heard them when they were right behind him, and before he had had the chance to turn around, there was a cloth in his mouth; the material scratchy even when it was soaked with a pungently sweet smell. It had filled his head, clouding his consciousness until it had disappeared completely. The rest was a black, empty space in the continuum of time. When he had woken next, he was stuffed inside what he had later found to be a closet. Panic had flooded his every senses until the nothing that was happening had him stop, breathe, and think. And then a boy had opened the door for him._  

Fear gripped him tight. John bolted, turning his back on the other boy, and rushing for the door he hoped to god was behind him― and it was. He gripped the knob, needing only to pull at it once to realize it was locked. He whipped around, scared to find the boy right there and in his face, breathing down his neck, but the other had not moved from his spot on the bed. He was leaning back, resting his palms on the mattress, and giving John a bored look. Right until John grabbed a lamp that was standing on a nearby table, pulling its cord out of the socket, and gripping it with every intent of using it as a weapon. That got the stranger moving, standing up as tall as he was, coming towards John.   

“Whoa there, John, don’t do something stu―”

“How the _fuck_ do you know my name? Get away from me!”

“Now, that’s just rude. I saved your sorry ass, don’t I even get a than―”

“Fuck off!”

 The corner of the boy’s lips twitched. “John. I _really don’t_ like being interrupted, so―”

“Don’t come closer!” The lamp was raised above his head, but John’s hands shook; whether from fear or anger, he was not sure. One thing he knew was that this guy had been the same one to stuff a cloth against his mouth―soaked with chloroform, as he had so casually mentioned―and locked him in a closet in an equally locked room. Making claims of being his savior, and John was having none of it. The thought of his father came to mind, and his stance faltered. The boy moved before he had the chance to collect himself. “You fucking step back you― AH!”

The lamp fell to the floor, the shade taking most of the impact. John was not as lucky. His head knocked against the door, skull rattling at the force of it, and it took him a few seconds to notice the ragged nails from before closed around his wrists, keeping his hands pinned to the surface behind him. His legs tried what his hands could not, but all movement became near impossible as the boy put his whole body against him; chests flush against one another, and John had to turn his head to not breathe the air coming out of the boy’s mouth. Being so close, the pitter patter of John’s heart was audible, only picking up speed the longer they remained like that. He dared not look, his eyes squeezed shut, but even so he could still feel those scarlet orbs on him. Moreover, he could feel the other boy’s breath on his skin. Hot and moist, and it was _disgusting_. Finding his voice, John had a deep intake of air, but before he put it to use, he was tugged off of the door. Again, the boy moved faster than John could keep up with, and his own feet sent him crashing to the floor. He scrambled to get his legs beneath himself, but a blinding pain to the side of his face had him back to square one; on the floor, but with something wet running out his nose. It passed his lips and he tasted metal. John looked up through his glasses, crooked in their place, and the boy’s face was much darker than before. His foot was hovering just a few inches off the ground before settling down. 

“I’ll be back―” Had blood not been gushing out his nose, John could have appreciated the movie reference. “―you better have calmed down by then.” It was the last thing the boy said before the rattle of keys, a click, and then the door slamming shut behind him followed by another click. And John was left all alone, in the dimness of the room that was slowly becoming brighter with the morning sun slipping through the cracks. On the other side of the door, the boy’s footsteps had turned loud and heavy, fading away gradually.    

The boy made his way down the corridor, wanting to punch the walls so hard that the entire building would shake beneath the blow. His anger was directed elsewhere, the joints in his neck snapping when the rumble of a voice reached him. In one of the doorways he had passed stood a man, bigger than him in every aspect, and wearing sunglasses of his own; triangular opposed to his own circular ones. Accustomed to seeing the world through dark lenses, he knew they were staring directly at each other. 

“Told you he’d take badly to it, Dave,” said the man.

“No shit. He just needs time.”

“And a bit o’ conditioning. Some restraints, maybe.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Look, I really don’t want to talk about this right now.” The boy―Dave―was worming his way out of the conversation, being less than subtle about his disappointment in his previous encounter. He had had a plan. It had started accordingly, expectantly, but took a sour turn. He knew he should have cleared the room for all movable objects. “Since you’re such an adroit eavesdropper, you already know how it went. We both know how it went. Neither of us need a summary. So fuck off, Bro.”

The man responded to the odd name, scoffing at the hostility in Dave’s voice. “Don’t know what’s so special about him anyway.”

“He’s pretty,” Dave answered without missing a beat. It was the same answer he had given plenty of times before, and it was annoying to have to repeat himself. Bro knew that.

“That’s it? You like him ‘cause he’s pretty?”

“I like to indulge in the aesthetics of life, so what?”

“So what is when you mix pleasure with professionalism. Pretty boy is on the list.”

“Yeah, I know.”   

That came to be the end of their conversation, both unrelenting in their stare― Bro more so than Dave. With a jerk of his body, Dave returned to stomping down the corridor, walking away from Bro’s provocations. He needed not his shit right now, he had more important things to think about.


	2. Be Grateful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Physical abuse  
> (I'll try not to spoil too much with the warnings, but if you ever feel like I ought to add more, please do tell me! I don't want someone to wind up in the wrong place at the wrong time because I haven't tagged warnings properly!)
> 
> Whoopee, dishing out a second chapter in the span of days booyah. That being said, if you find any mistakes/typos/whatever, please let me know so I can fix it! I do proofread my work, but have a tendency to overlook stuff :o
> 
> Anyways, a bit more action in this chapter! Finally getting into it, down and dirty and all that.  
> I hope you like it!

Patience is a virtue. It was something Dave would like to quote from some author or poet unbeknownst to him. It helped to steady his mind, his hands, his itching being that was anything but patient. The continuous drumming of his fingers against the tabletop conveyed his restlessness, and it brought great annoyance to his brother sharing the breakfast table. Milk and fruit loops spilled onto the table when Bro threw his spoon into the bowl, drawing Dave out of his mind palace and putting an end to the obnoxious fidgeting. The man’s dark brows were taught on his forehead, noticeable above the edge of his sunglasses. He spoke with intention in his every word, and it was clear what he wanted from Dave at the moment― silence. 

“Yer gonna have to go check up on him eventually. If it starts to smell, you’re handling it,” Bro said and leaned back in his seat. His arms crossed over his broad chest, shaded gaze unrelenting, though his eyes were trained on those bony fingers; the cause of the growing annoyance within him.

”The room’s connected to a bathroom, calm down.” Catching the hint he had deliberately been ignoring, Dave busied his hands by bringing a spoon of colorful, soggy cereal to his mouth. They had soaked in the milk for too long. He was tempted to throw them out. 

“That’s not the kind of smell I’m talking about. In this weather, he might start smellin’ in, what? Half a day?”

“I’m not gonna let him rot.”

“Well he sure ain’t flourishing with no food for two days. I doubt even houseplants can go that long with just tap water.”

Dave took another bite, his teeth clinking hard against the silver spoon. “For your information,” he said with a mouth full. “They can. It’s the whole thing about plants, you see. The things can live off of nothin’. Fucking ultimate survival right there. They do this wicked thing called photosynthesis, where they basically suck goddamn nutrients up with their ass and skin, and―”

”Quit stallin’.” 

Another clink of teeth against silver. He really hated being interrupted. “Quit putting your nose in my shit. Thought you had no fucks to give about the guy.” 

“I don’t.” Bro readjusted himself in his seat, propping one elbow onto the tabletop and resting his chin in his palm. He was analyzing the hostility that Dave was addressing him with. He was analyzing, not trying to analyze. He never _tried_ doing anything, as that would implicate he did not know the outcome of his attempts; you need not try when you were successful. The tension that Dave had brought to the table was from obvious reasons. Ever since that John kid had been dragged over their doorstep, Dave had been acting on edge. He was jumpier than usual, giddier, and more antsy. It was like the number of nerves in him had doubled, all acting up and making him hyper aware of the world around him. Bro could see past it the first day, he had been a bit out of character himself. The occasional shouts and banging on a door did that to a person. It had taken his all not to kick down the door and bang the kid’s head against a wall. A sound he could handle more easily and for a longer duration of time. But this was Dave’s shit to handle. Not his. Problem was when Dave would not take responsibility and face the very person he had had no problem ogling for the past― hell, Bro didn't know. He could date it all back to the first picture Dave had snatched of the boy, but Dave refused to let Bro anywhere near his “work”. Bro found the term unfitting. 

“But I happen to give a great many fucks about my beauty sleep,” he finally continued by saying. “And I had the impression you felt the same. You got a room and a bed, so use it.”

”The couch is just fine,” Dave replied nonchalantly. His back was sore from having spent two nights on said couch, but he was not about to validate Bro’s nagging. Soon, he would be able to move back into his own room, with John. The boy was occupying his quarters currently, likely tearing the place apart if the banging, curses, and yelling were anything to judge by. It was not according to plan, but it was expected. Dave knew it would be wishful thinking to have John compliant in the matter of a few days, but he had visioned John as a better listener. The boy would always listen to his friends, talk with them for hours on the phone, text back within minutes, and would nod his head in interest when talking to someone face to face. Dave had thought John would do so with him, too. But he had not. John had interrupted him and cursed his very presence, the fear in his voice back then so strong that it had drowned out the intimidation he had tried to pull off. All that Dave had asked for was gratitude, but the request had been met with spite― and he had kicked John in the face for it, painting it red. The color did not look good on John. 

But plenty of other colors did. The candy red of blood was too stark on him, but a deeper berry red went well with the warmth of his clay skin. Green made him look like he was in bloom, and blue brought out his eyes; those cobalt eyes held an intensity to them that was unlike any other. They were plain, normal, and nothing special to the common opinion, but Dave found them mesmerizing. The moment in his room had been the first time he had been so close for so long. He had been able to gaze into them, John’s irises all blue as his pupils had shrunk. It had been beautiful. Dave wanted to see it again, but he had to bide his time. He had to, or the previous day’s mistakes would repeat themselves. In the time in between, he had dug out old photographs of John to state his longing, reminding himself that all good comes to those who wait― another quote from someone unbeknownst to him. He considered saying it out loud, because his brother had an air of agitation around him, affecting his tone of voice.    

“Just admit it,” Bro said. “You don’t know what yer doin’.” He got no response from Dave apart from a sidelong glance, the boy choosing to stay within his own thoughts rather than addressing the issue. The conversational topic was a hassle, and plenty more so as it was becoming more of one-sided talk. Bro gave a loud sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose and pushing his shades up in the process. “If yer gonna keep him, at least do it right.” 

“And what exactly is _right?_ ” 

Bro paused. He tapped a finger against his cheek, letting the seconds drag out before he spoke again. “I’ll show you.” 

“What the hell are you ta― Wait, Bro.” The chair made a shrill noise as Bro pushed back and got out of his seat, walking around the table and heading to where the kitchen became corridor. Dave knew where he was heading, and he recognized the hint of excitement in his brother’s voice. It was a foretelling of bad things to come. “Bro, stay out of this. It was my choice, I’ll handle―” 

“You’re not handlin’ shit. Can’t trust a kid with a pet without adult supervision.” 

“He is _not_ a pet,” Dave said hotly, pushing the words through gritted teeth. He was tailing after Bro just a few steps behind, the man’s legs longer and faster than his own. It was a weak excuse. He did not dare touch Bro when he was in such a mood, but that did not mean he was going to let him touch John, either. Yet his own hesitation to step in meant that Bro reached the end of the corridor before him, pulling out a set of keys and blasting the door open. “Bro―!” 

The room was seemingly empty. The man walked in with loud steps, looking around. The sheets were strewn about the bed, the curtains drawn back to reveal barred windows and a late morning sky, and the walls were void of decorations of any kind. John was nowhere in sight. Bro’s attention snapped towards the closed door to the connected bathroom. His fingers were itching to dig into something, but he had not the chance. 

John darted out from behind the door Bro had opened, dashing down the corridor. He made it all of five steps before his path was blocked by Dave, coming close to crashing into each other, and John saw those demon eyes widen behind their shades. It was a brief moment’s contact. A hand large enough to reach around the girth of his neck took a tight hold on him. The scream in his throat was choked, and he was hauled backwards. The man was someone new, John did not recall his face, but if he had keys to the door, then he was bad. John was dragged back into the room, his bare heels getting floor-burns without the protection of socks or shoes, and he could not get in a kick with how fast Bro was walking. Getting over the doorstep was a jab of short pain. Objections were shooting out of John, loud and booming, and the sound of them had Dave rush forward; not to help, but to be there to pick up the pieces. 

“Let me go! Let g―” John was cut off when he became short of breath, being slammed up against a wall pushing the air out of him. The hand had shifted to wrap around his front, squeezing his throat, and he could not swallow. Each time, his Adam’s apple was hindered by a palm pressing against his jugular. Getting any word out past that death grip was an effort he was not willing to make. Before him stood a man, and he would have been towering above John had he not been levitating the boy in the air, making them face to face. The added pressure of gravity drew a strained noise out of John. His hands reached for the one wrapped around his throat, clawing at the wrist, but his captor was unfazed. In his head, John made the connection between the man to Dave’s previous words and the mention of what he guessed to be a name― he must be Bro. The ability to put a face to the name helped not. The hand was still like iron around his neck, despite the red scratches John left on Bro’s wrist. 

“You listen up, you ungrateful piece of shit,” Bro growled, the sound low but dangerous. His breath was coming out right against John’s face, smelling of sugary sweets and milk. “I’m dead tired of you throwin’ a fit. Yer gonna be spendin’ a while here, so I suggest you get a grip on that little attitude problem o’ yours.” He tightened his grip, making John’s mouth hang open in a silent gasp. “Should’ve known. You rich kids are all the same.” 

Bro let go. Without something holding him up, John came crashing down. He grasped at his own throat, rubbing the spot as if to ease the passage for air to be sucked down and into his lungs. It was only a moment’s relief he was allowed. Before he could regain his breathing, Bro was speaking up again. 

“Dave, grab his hands. Take him to the bed, on his knees and leaning over the mattress.” 

John had not the time to memorize the new name as Dave approached, leaving his spot in the doorway where he had stood like a statue. John barely even had the time to register what Bro was saying. Dave was upon him, grabbing his arms and dragging him across the floor, and he kicked and screamed the whole way there. The shouts were silenced when he was pulled against the edge of the bed, arms outstretched before him. Dave held them to the mattress, practically sitting on them, and John’s chest was bend over the bed. The position was uncomfortable. Both because of his knees on the hard floor, and because of the fact it obscured his view. Bro’s figured had disappeared somewhere behind him. Even with the loud thump, thump, thump of his pulse in his ears, he heard the sound of metal clinking together briefly, then the swoosh of fabric against fabric. The panic had words tumble out of his mouth. 

“W-wait! Let me go, I won’t―” 

There was a loud _crack_ , and John’s whole body convulsed in shock. He knew what the previous sounds had been now. Bro had taken off his belt, a great long leather thing, and was holding it in his hands, pulling it tight to make it crack in the air. It sparked a new fire in John. He writhed against Dave’s grasp, trying to push off on his knees. He needed to get away, he knew what was coming, and he did not want to be there for it― he did not want to sit and wait for it to happen. 

Unknown to John, a look was exchanged between Dave and Bro. “H-h-hey! Stop! Don’t―!” Cold air hit John’s back suddenly, and he was hidden away from the sunlight coming in through the cracks of the barred windows. Dave had leaned forward, grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it up above his head, exposing his skin to the room. The eyes that roamed over the display were almost sensory. John could feel them travel up the bit of flesh protruding where his pants hugged his hips, and then they moved further up past his lower back and spine. They were ice, and they sent a shiver through him. 

The cold did not last long. The only warning was the sound of something cutting through the air, and then hot pain exploded on John’s left shoulder blade― a scream ripped his throat, but it broke halfway out his mouth. There was another hit in the same spot, making the pain dig deeper into his skin and lingering there. John arched his back, the small bumps of his spine showing, and he thrashed against Dave’s hold. He could not see, not with his own shirt above his head, and he could only move as much as Dave allowed it. The boy’s hold was unrelenting, leaving dents on John’s lower arms. The left side of his back was ablaze, lines of pure fire reaching from the center to the tips of his shoulder. It was terrifying. He felt everything, but all he could see was the plain sheets beneath his head, and all he heard was the whistle as the belt was swung. And something lighter, a breathy sound like a puff of air coming from somewhere behind him.    

Bro was bringing his hand back a third time, the belt loose in his hands. His hand tightened around the leather, and it came down on John’s naked back, the sound of impact resonating within the four walls. The boy was shaking more and more with each hit, but he was still making too much noise. Bro relished in it, yet he had a point to be making. John’s breath hitched, a plea on the tip of his tongue, but it was snuffed out by a lick of the belt. The fourth time. Bro was counting, he kept count on most things. Like the amount of breaths John could fit within the pause between each hit. The boy had an impressive lung capacity. 

“Do you happn’ to have broadened your vocabulary yet, kid?” John flinched just from the sound of the man’s voice. Bro’s face was stone, barely even showing acknowledgment for John’s distress; unlike Dave. Dave’s grip was not faltering, but his composure was. His brows had come together, his lips formed a thin line, and he was looking down at the trembling body beneath him. John’s back was lined with four lashes. They were not deep enough to leave scars, but for the moment, they were a stabbing pain that ignited John’s skin, making the smallest roll of his shoulder and arch of his back hurt. Dave had had worse, but John had not. He was yet untouched, his body blank like a page. And Bro had just spilled the first drop of black ink onto him, Dave helping to stretch out the paper. Within the bundle that was John’s shirt, sobs were audible, if not noticeable by the way the boy’s shoulders heaved up and down shakily.   

Another crack, eliciting a loud cry. “I asked yer a question.” 

“I don’t know wha― _Nngh!_ ” The answer John was about to give was not satisfactory, Bro would rather hear him cry. He meant to dig the answer out of John, however many swings it would take. They had reached the count of six. 

“C’mon. You know the answer I want.”

“I don’t kn―” Seven. “S-shit! Fucking hell, that _hurts_.” 

Bro clicked his tongue. John was slow in the uptake. He walked close, bringing up his foot and stomping it against the boy’s abused back, keeping it there and forcing out a shout of pain from the one beneath his boot. The soles of his shoes were dirty, bits of grovel and pebbles stuck in the empty spaces, and it stung against the raw skin. 

“Bro―” Dave had begun by saying, but the swift gesture of Bro holding up a single finger had him silent once more. 

“Think. What do I wanna hear?” 

“I’m t-telling you, I don’t―” Pressure was applied, cutting John short before he could make the same mistake for the eight time in a row. It helped not, for John went ahead and did it anyway. “Okay! Okay, okay, _fuck_. I― I’ll apologize. I’m sor― AAH!” 

The leather cracked against his back in place of Bro’s boot, and there was a particular force behind the blow. John could feel minuscule drops of blood swell to the surface. 

“I said think. What do you say when someone does somethin’ nice for ya? When someone _saves_ you?”

“You’re not seri―”

Bro reached the count of nine. Another scream released itself from John’s throat, its passage dry and painful. It was agony. The ninth lash had turned the droplets of blood into red pearls rolling down the curve of his back in thin stripes, and every expansion of his chest when he breathed stretched the cuts just a smidgen. John’s following words were a prayer;      

“Thank you! Thank you! _I’m grateful_ , I am. I’m g-grateful.” 

Something in the air shifted. The tension had lifted, as if released in time with the breath leaving Dave’s lips. John could hear it, that sigh of relief, coming from above him. The grip on him loosened, but he did not move. It hurt too much, and he was scared. His world was still obscured to that within his shirt, and he feared opening up for reality to hit him again. It was a wise choice. Bro was tempted to make the count of lashes an even number. A pleased hum came from behind him, Bro fastening his belt around his hips again. The leather felt warm. 

“Took yer long enough,” Bro said. John could not feel it now, his back a sensory massacre, but eyes were taking in the sight of him again. The boy was quivering, choked down sobs audible in the silence that came over the room, shaken to the core and left with a clear impression of the man called Bro; in the form of asymmetrical lines on his skin. John stayed on his knees, the ache in them paling in comparison to his back. Bro moved, walking right past him and for the door, but not before leaning in towards Dave. “That’s how you do it. Hope you took notes.”     

The man was seen off with a deathly glare from Dave, his chest puffed out and shoulders raised. They only lowered several moments after Bro’s footsteps had disappeared down the corridor. Dave and John were alone. Dave hesitantly moved to the trembling mess leaning on the bed, the dip of the mattress not startling as much as he was simply too exhausted. 

“Keep your arms stretched. I’m going to take off your shirt,” Dave whispered. He need not talk louder as every sound practically amplified in the quiet that fell upon them. There was no response from John, and he went ahead to rid the boy of the clothing. Was it left be, it would just get dirty. Dave carefully held on to the bottom of John’s shirt, pulling the garment further up his arms, past his elbows, and off of him. It knocked his glasses out of place, and he winced more than once, but practicality came before his immediate comfort. The black locks on John’s head had gotten out of place and static from the friction of the fabric. It was so tempting. 

John only tensed when he felt a hand in his hair. Long, skeletal fingers carded through it, getting caught in knots and accidentally tugging at individual strands. The touch was uncomfortable, everything was uncomfortable, but the fear was still heavy on him. He was grounded, unable to move. Dave was smoothing back his hair, those ragged nails scratching his scalp, but the other seemed content to continue. Eventually, when John made a move to push his chest off of the mattress, Dave snapped back to reality. The blood had gone dry on John’s back, and the wounds needed treatment, however small they were. The softness of John’s hair was a lingering tickle against his fingertips, and it took his all not to reach out again. It was the first time, the very first time, that he had _touched_ John. A picture says a million words, but his hands were able to convert physical sensation into feeling; it was light and warm, unlike anything he had felt before, and he itched for more. Dave was starting to disagree with the authors and poets who spoke so highly of patience. 

Dave brought his hand back, getting off of the bed. He spoke still in a whisper, keeping it short and sweet to spare John; “I’ll bring you some fresh towels.” 

And Dave did bring back a pair of towels, as well as the bowl of soggy cereal he had left in the kitchen.


	3. Questions & (no) Answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Physical abuse + Dave being a big creep 
> 
> Sorry for the wait!!! I honestly thought I could have this out much sooner, but school caught up with me,,,,  
> But wowzer, thank you all SO MUCH for all the great support and sweet comments!! :'D

“You need to sit still.” Despite Dave’s words, the boy was still squirming in his seat. He knew that John heard him. The boy inclined his head just a fraction of a centimeter to the left, evident by the slight contraction of muscle in his neck and the way his hair would shift in its place. The dark locks were heavy with sweat, and some of the hairs on the back of his head had gotten bits of blood in it. The fact that John was listening but did not comply was bothering him. It was another way of disregarding his words, same as interrupting him. Dave kept his hands from conveying the frustration build inside, his touch remaining gentle. John was nothing but nerves, jumping at the smallest pressure applied to his open back. The towel Dave had brought used to be white, but it had become dotted with red stains, and new ones were still being added. He patted it against the scarlet lines on John’s back. Even through the material, he could feel the boy tense, his muscles jumping beneath the material that was supposed to feel soft― against his wounds, it felt like sandpaper. 

“Don’t move,” Dave repeated. “We’re almost done.” He had said the same several minutes ago. John had stopped holding his breath waiting for Dave to leave when he realized the other was taking his sweet time. Every touch lingered, closer to that of a caress than anything else. It was such a contrast to the abuse he had been dealt just moments before. John had not stopped crying. His tears had become scarce, running dry, but a few still trickled down his cheeks, and he sniffled to keep snot from running past his upper lip. More than anything, he was scared. And beyond that, he was fazed.

“W-who are you?” The caress of his back stopped, hovering just above his right shoulder, and John feared he had spoken out of turn. A heavy silence followed. The only sound to break it was John’s shallow breathing, in and out, coming faster the longer the quiet remained. Anxiety was lying right beneath John’s skin, crawling like bugs and causing shivers to course through him― or it was anticipation. He was waiting for the other boy to say something. The sudden reticent to him was a stark contrast to that of the talkative boy from earlier, but whether the boy was talking or not, John found he gave little to no answers. None that made sense, anyway.

John stared down at his own two hands in front of him. The bones beneath the skin were showing just slightly, his knuckles clearly defined, from how tightly he was holding on to the covers beneath him. They were white as snow, stained with a few drops of sweat and blood, the latter standing out against the blank sheets. John wondered how bad his back looked. Something hard to imagine as he scarcely could even come to terms with what was happening. The four walls surrounding him were not familiar, and they had thrown back his own screams when a strange man had come to hurt him. To punish him for things that were not his fault, and to force a piece of his dignity out together with the two words; “thank you”. It felt as if he was sitting close to a fire, his back covered in a painful heat, and maybe he was. His abductor was right behind him, and his every touch burned.

“Right...” The silence was finally broken by Dave. He brought his hand back up to add pressure to John’s wounds, and he liked to think that John flinched from the pain rather than away from the touch itself. Another moment of quiet tension passed between the two of them before he continued talking. “My name is Dave. I won’t give you a surname, there’s no use. Ya won’t be using it, so I’m just Dave. And that other guy?” John’s shoulders rose higher at the mention, the muscles of his back drawing together. “You will call him Bro.”

“Bro?”

“Just Bro, yeah,” Dave told John, and immediately repeated his own name― “And I’m Dave. Remember that.”― as if John was like to forget it. Dave almost rushed to say it, wanting to push past the topic of his brother and keep the focus on the moment. The moment shared between just John and him.

“How could I forget? I― ouch, fuck.” John hissed in pain. Dave pressed against a particularly sore spot, one where the leather belt had ripped deeper into him. “Sto― Stop.”

“If we don’t get these sparkly clean it’s gonna hurt even more. Trust me, I know a thing or two about―”

“No! No, just― _Stop!_ ” The fire in his voice had Dave’s hand retaliating completely. The presence behind him retreated just a few more inches, and the amount of space between them was an indication of John’s confidence. It was not much, but it was more than before, and just enough to give John the courage to raise his voice. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you _fucking_ touch me!”

Panic was coiling itself around John more, and his entire body jolted to escape its grasp. He turned around to face Dave, the skin on his back stretching in pain as his torso twisted at the waist. A deathly hand was reaching out for him, and it was the only thing John saw. He did not see the worried crease of Dave’s brows on his forehead. John jerked away, his hands grabbing and pushing against the surface beneath him for leverage, but the sheets were silky smooth and slipped beneath him. The white bed received much larger stains when John’s back hit the mattress. It was supposed to feel soft beneath him, but in that moment it felt like jagged glass, and John let out a cry. And Dave’s hand kept coming closer.

“Shit― John, calm down. Look, I’ll tell you. I’ll answer your questions. I’ll tell you my whole name, Bro’s, my birthday, and―”

“I don’t fucking care what your name is!”      

“You literally just asked wh―”

“ _Who are you?_ What am I doing here? Where―” John pushed himself upright, the sheets sticking to the sticky wetness of his back for just a few seconds before letting go, and he saw the thin lines of blood on them. It was an imprint of his back, and he knew the real thing would look a lot more grotesque. Dave saw it, too. They were close enough that those demon eyes were visible through the dark lenses, practically glowing, and it made it so that John detected them returning to him immediately after. Dave’s hand would not stop reaching for him.

“Don’t touch me!” John swung his arm but it did not make impact. Instead, he found his back pushed down, reconnecting with the mattress. Despite the bouncy surface, it rattled his head and strained his neck, but he fought through it. Even as Dave moved on top of him, filling up his view and blocking out all else, he did not cease fighting. He only screamed louder, and all of it was voiced as questions, though he did not want an answer to most of them. He feared it, the answers. The red lines on his back gave him plenty of clarity as to what these men were capable of. “Don’t touch me! Get off! What are you doing? What do you _want _?__ Get off!!”

Anger flashed across Dave’s face, fast and quick, and it caused the previous concern in his voice to harden. A large hand that was all bone fisted itself in John’s shirt, pushing him down, and he could feel the boy’s knuckles against his collarbone. It sparked a renewed panic in him. “ _Don’t touch me!_ ” 

John reached his hands up, dragging his nails down Dave’s lower arm, but even as they left scratches in their wake the boy did not even flinch. He only sneered down at John. The way his muscles contracted could be felt in John’s fingertips, and he swore he saw blue veins popping beneath that sickly pale skin. He could not be sure, though, because Dave moved at a speed John could not keep up with. He was hungry, tired, and in pain. He could not keep up with most. To John, Dave was moving at inhuman speeds, and he was more and more convinced that Dave really was a demon. John opened his mouth to scream, but a hand snuffed out the sound. Those jagged nails dug into his cheeks, leaving dents in the soft skin, and John forgot how to breathe through his nose. Dave was so close, only inches away from his face, and though his body was hovering above John’s, it felt heavy all the same. It pushed John down into the mattress, putting pressure against his wounds, and making his chest feel tight. From above, John looked a mouse. Caught and trapped as it had tripped the spring-loaded bar, and that trap was now squeezing the life out of him. Only difference was that a mouse would at least have gotten a bite of cheese before death, John had not even seen his father’s face. 

The words he tried to say were muffled into Dave’s palm, but he caught the hint. Dave kept his hand on John’s mouth for just a little while longer, then releasing it. Hearing how John gasped for air calmed him some, knowing he was the one who had given it to him. Everything that John had was a gift bestowed upon him by Dave. John was, however, having trouble understanding that. He looked no closer to understanding as Dave was looming above him, one hand placed on either side of his head, making sure not to accidentally place them on those dark locks of hair. The effort was lost on John, though. Dave scanned his face, finding only fear there, evident in his wide eyes and the thin layer of sweat starting to coat his earthy skin, giving it a shine. Dave did not like that look. It was too alike that he saw on the faces of lesser people. It did not belong on John’s face. His cheeks should not be that pale, his nose should not crease so, his brows should not be that high and close together, and Dave should not be feeling such an ache at the sight. 

“I don’t like being interrupted. I already told you that,” Dave said, quiet and melancholic. His fingers traveled down from John’s chin to his neck, tracing the pulse beneath the delicate skin. The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed at the touch.   

“W-where is my dad?” John croaked out. Dave was pleased to note that the other’s voice had lowered to a more reasonable volume, one that Dave could work with and talk to. The question was another matter. 

“Shouldn’t you be more worried about yourself?”

“Where is my dad?”

“Not here.”

”Where is he?”

”21605 Fir Dr, Maple Valley, Washington.” 

It was comical how John’s face stretched in bewilderment at the pinpoint answer he was given, even as he had been the one to ask. Dave tilted his head just a tad, looking down at him. John was a curios thing, so expressive as if he had a face made of rubber, capable of molding itself to fit every human feeling known to mankind. Dave wanted to see all of it on that face, every specter of emotion. John had the freedom of showing all the things that Dave could not, and he relished in it. He had a collection dedicated to the boy’s face, showing both the good, the bad, and the ugly. And all of them were absolutely stunning in their own right. Some would make his heart throb, others pulled at the corners of his mouth, and some made him feel warm deep in his gut. To have John beneath him, live and in the flesh, it was surreal. The boy was an open book, and Dave wanted to read all of his pages. 

“What are you doing?”

“Pardon?” Dave cocked his head to the side, raising a brow.

“Where am I?” 

John had reconsidered his question. A smart choice. His blue eyes were locked on the dark shades on Dave’s face, seeing his own reflection in them. Stark white hair was hanging in the other boy’s face, almost one with the white of his skin. The only color on him were the freckles dusting his cheeks, forehead, and John’s eyes could follow their trail all the way down Dave’s neck and shoulders, disappearing further into the cover of his shirt. John thought it easier to look at those dotted pigments than it was to look at his own mirrored reflection.    

“Somewhere safe,” Dave answered.

“Somewhere safe?”

“That’s what I said, yeah.”

“Where is _somewhere safe?_ ” 

Dave flashed him a grin, showing off teeth just as pale as his face. “Now, I can’t spoil all of the fun. Besides, it doesn’t matter.” 

“Doesn’t matter?”

“You sure do like to mimic voices, don’t ya?” 

There was only given a hot glare from John in response, waiting for an elaboration from Dave. The boy’s words were foreboding, a tone to each of them making John feel like he ought to ask more questions and stop talking altogether. The silence John chose to respond with proved to be the right choice. Dave twisted his tongue to start talking again only moments later. 

“It doesn’t matter because you’re not goin’ outside. Not yet. You’ve barely even broken in the bed, gotta at least get a bit of good shut eye before starting to wander about.” 

“This isn’t a vacation!” John hissed out, louder than he meant to. He quickly recovered his composure, not wanting that clammy hand to cover his mouth once more. “I can’t sleep.” 

“Not on your back you can’t.” Something kinder slipped into Dave’s voice. “Bro can be bit of a jackass sometimes. Just don’t get on his bad side― or well, he only got bad sides, so try to not get on any of them. I swear, he is like a mine field. One big plain of pure mines, just waitin’ for you to up and trip on one. Sometimes he deliberately makes you walk right into them, he is just that much of an ass jack. And― You’re not listening at all, are you?” 

John was silent. His eyes were watering, glistening in the light of the room coming in through the windows. Dave wracked his brain trying to figure out why. He had not hurt John, had he? The boy’s back was still sore, but he would have reacted sooner if that was the cause. Had he said something wrong? He was giving John all the answers to his questions, John should not be on the verge of tears. He was doing everything for _John_ ― John had not the right to cry. 

“Hey. Hey, no, John. Stop.” Dave tried speaking with a voice as soft as possible. People did not take kindly to loud noises, he knew. In distress, softness was the way forward, and he did his best to convey that. He moved both hands to John’s cheeks, cupping his face. It was the opposite reaction of what he wanted that he got. 

A shriek tore through the quiet, and John thrashed all four of his limbs. Dave’s hands had felt enclosing, and he realized that John was not acting a human for the moment. The other boy was closer to that of an animal, cornered and wounded. Dave had made a mistake in his calculations, but he was not allowed to right them with John throwing his arms about, kicking his legs. Suddenly, Dave’s speed was not enough. He did not dodge one of John’s feet in time, and it hit him in the gut, kicking a harsh coughing sound out of him. An opportunity opened, and John rushed to grab it. John pushed Dave off, unfazed by how the fast movements twitched and tore at his wounded back, and his eyes shot for the door. His feet would have done the same, but they never made it off of the bed. 

John got a face full of sheets. The scream he made was muffled into the fabric, and he tried to claw his way forward to no avail. A hand was closed around the back of his neck, forcing him down with such strength that it left no space between his mouth and the bed for him to breathe. He was choking again, his body convulsing in on itself as it tried sucking in air it could not get to. Dave was seated on his lower back, his knees digging into John’s sides. Another mistake had been made, and Dave was forgiving; he could be, for John, but Bro’s rumble of a voice echoed inside his skull. If he was going to keep John, he would have to do it _right_. 

Hot, blazing pain dragged down John’s back. He recognized those jagged nails again. Dave inched his fingers down John’s exposed back, starting from where spine met neck and down, passing the red lines put there by the belt. Each time, those notched nails would catch in the slight dents of the lashes, pulling at the broken skin and awakening droplets of blood. And each time, John twitched, his screams turning into moans of pain. He wondered just how long his back was, because it seemed to drag on forever. Finally, Dave reached his tailbone. New, pink lines decorated John’s back alongside the scarlet ones. He went still, all except for the shaking of his shoulders. The pressure on his neck had lifted just enough for him to be able to breathe, and a wet spot was created on the sheets from his moist breath and wet cheeks. His fingers were gripping onto the material tightly. 

He was not the only one breathing hard. Dave’s breath was ragged above him. “Shit...” he cursed, his hands leaving John’s body altogether. There was blood under his nails, John’s blood, and it itched. “God _fucking_ damnit.” John flinched at the raise of his voice. “Why did you have to do that? I was doing what _you asked_ , you fucking―” Dave stopped himself, realizing that he was about to quote his own brother, and the thought alone did not sit right with him. But John had been ungrateful. And Bro’s method had helped. The punishment had helped calm John down. The boy was rigid beneath him, conversing his emotions through the sound of his sobs and hitched breathing. Dave deciphered it as momentary submission. He knew John too well to say it was permanent. 

“You deal with the rest,” Dave said. The weight on John’s back left as Dave slipped off of him, getting off the bed in the same motion. John did not move to follow. “You gotta clean it up. Add a bit of water, but don’t take a shower yet. Let it dry before puttin’ on a shirt. And eat―” A hand gestured towards the bowl of cereal on the bedside table. It was beyond soggy now, practically dissolved in the milk and taken on an odd color from the different Fruit Loops mixed together. It was food nonetheless. “I’ll bring you something more substantial later.”     

There was no response given. John had fallen quiet. Dave wanted an answer, but the new dots of red surfacing on John’s back prompted him not to. His departure was signaled with the close of the door, followed by the lock turning. John pushed himself up once the jingle of keys were out of hearing distance. Every move hurt. When that door opened again, it was still hurting, but not bleeding. Moreover, the sun had begun to set outside.

The time in between morning and evening had been spent on patching himself up, trying to keep from wincing at his own hand, and finally being able to put on the privacy of a shirt in the end. It was stained with blood in a few places, as were the sheets, but John had scrubbed his hands clean. Every little nook, cranny, and fold. As Dave stepped into the room, John saw that his hands were clean, too. Even the blood under his nails. 

“Hey,” Dave greeted. He was sounding friendly, but the fact that he turned to lock the door after himself was anything but. John eyed him warily from his spot on the bed. There was a plastic container in one of his hands, the inside walls fogged with steam from whatever was inside, and a spoon in the other. It was food, just as Dave had promised. John had to will himself to look away. His diet the last few days had consisted of water from the tab and nothing else, to say he was hungry would be an understatement. The bowl of cereal was left untouched. Even if John was hungry, he would not be lapping up soggy leftovers. 

There was no exchange of greetings, and Dave’s own was left hanging in the air unanswered. He had expected as much, though he had hoped for something else. “I got you some grub, you must be starving. It’s pasta―” Dave was taking off the lid of the container as he came closer, showing what was inside. “―with tomato sauce. Nothin’ fancy, just dished up whatever we got in the fridge. Which, admittedly, wasn’t a lot, but we’ll make due, yeah? Survival of the fittest and all that.” 

He was cheery. It made John’s brows come together, his face setting in a hard expression. It did not falter as Dave kept coming closer, seating himself on the edge of the bed and much too close to John. Moving further away was not an opportunity. John was already up close with the wall, and he did not want to push his back against it and stir up the burning pain of his back just as it had settled down. He stayed put, his breathing coming in shallower in Dave’s presence. 

“I couldn’t get you anything but a spoon. You probably understand why, right?” Dave continued talking, glancing at John. “Considerin’ our latest get-together, I think it’s pretty reasonable not to trust you with something sharp and pointy. I mean, I’m even hesitant to give you this thing, round and all. There’s a damn movie about a dude killin’ someone with a spoon, y’know? Shit is dangerous in the right hands.” 

John strongly doubted that Dave ever trusted him with something pointy. The room and the connected bathroom was void of all things not nailed to the floor, wall, or the ceiling. But he let Dave run his mouth; the boy seemed easier to handle so long as he was talking. 

“Anyways, I dished this out myself. Not the greatest, but I’m not ashamed to admit my culinary skills aren’t that defined.” The plastic container was passed to John, feeling warm in his lap, and the spoon was pressed into his open palm. John was hesitant to dig in. A prolonged look from Dave, and he began to pick at the food, though. Dave’s silence was a bad sign. To hear the boy draw in a breath to fuel his rambling was a relief.

“Unlike you,” Dave continued. He leaned back against the bed, keeping himself upright with the support of his hands and arms. “The stuff you can cook up, boy oh boy, got my mouth waterin’ at just the thought.” John was listening with half an ear, stuffing his mouth with the pasta. It was overcooked and the sauce was too salty, but it was food. He only noticed Dave getting increasingly more intimate in his observations when he was halfway through the dish. “You gotta teach me how, someday. I mean, all humans make mistakes, even in the kitchen, but you? You rarely do. Except for that one time. I never knew you could actually set a muffin on fire. Color me impressed. You almost burned off both your father’s eyebrows.” 

The words struck a nerve in him. John looked up from the food, staring at Dave with wide eyes. “That... was a prank.” His voice was barely above a whisper. Something deeply unsettling came over him, making it hard to swallow. John still remembered the feeling of Dave’s nails raking down his back, he remembered the kick to his face and everything else, too. Going against the boy’s will was an ill decision, but John could not help feeling disturbed. Dave spoke about him as if he himself had been there. Like he had stood there in the kitchen with John and his father, had been able to smell the smoke and hear the crackling of the muffin bread burning. He spoke with a convincing familiarity. 

“Hell of a prank it was. Really blew the guy away, though I think anyone would be caught with their pants down if they expected to open up a nice batch of sizzling hot cupcakes but found hell’s inferno instead. Like damn, talk about dropping it like it’s hot, huh? John?” 

Dave finally caught on to the disquieted expression on John’s face, even as he had been looking at the other the whole time. It was when the tension did not fade that Dave decided to approach it, albeit not head on. 

“What? It doesn’t taste good?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The pasta. Is it no good, or?”

“No. No, that’s not what I’m― How do you know that?”

“The pasta?” 

“ _NO!_  The things you said. About me. My father. Everything.” John was growing frantic in his speech, making his anxiety strikingly clear with how harshly he shoved the plastic container back in Dave’s hands. He did not care about the pain it would cause to his back anymore; he pressed himself up against the wall which the bed stood by, just to get more space between them. It was not enough. Dave still so close that John could see the way the corner of his lips twisted, his nostrils flaring for a moment. 

“You really want me to say it?”  

“No.”  

“You know how.”

“I can make a guess.” 

“Good. Then don’t say it,” Dave said in a way that indicated that part of the conversation was done for. There was a hint of shame there, hidden away behind the stoic facade. John did not want to plow into it, scared of what skeletons he might dig up. Dave rose from his seat, continuing to speak. “I’ll go put this away. Get ready for bed.” 

The atmosphere had shifted, depending entirely on Dave’s mood. It seemed that Dave would walk through the door with an optimistic attitude, talkative beyond what was approving, and when he left, he would be brooding; going through the moments he had spent with John, trying to spot the part where it went amiss. 

John did not lay down on the bed. His eyes were trained on the door, waiting for it to open, and for his _stalker_ to walk in and watch him sleep. The thought was disturbing. But Dave had talked like they knew each other, like they had shared memories even when it was not until just recently that John realized he existed at all. He wished Dave had remained nonexistent in his life. Fate was not on his side, though, and the door opened much later. A sense of calm had just come over John, together with a heavy exhaustion, enough to have had him slip beneath the sheets, making sure the stained surface was facing up. Sleeping in his own blood made his skin crawl. The sound of the door opening, letting a stream of light pour into the room, had him startled. A dark silhouette stood in the doorway, only recognizable once the door closed again. John’s eyes readjusted to the dark, and he saw Dave. The boy was blurry in his vision as he had discarded his glasses on the bedside table, but even so there was no mistaking the other. 

“What are you doing?” The idea that, maybe, Dave was actually going to watch him sleep struck him. 

“What? It’s bedtime.”

“What are you doing _in here?_ ”

“I’m going to be sleeping with you tonight.” 

John froze. “What?” He thought about the implications that short sentence could mean; about the lingering touches Dave had dealt him, how soft they were; he thought about when those nails of his had dragged down his back and how much it had hurt. Dave stepped closer, and John panicked.

”No. Wait― _Fuck no!_ Get away from me!”

“Dude, it’s just―”

“Don’t fucking ‘dude’ me! Don’t touch me! Don’t― D-don’t come closer, I swear I will fucking kick you agai― Ow! Let go!” 

Dave had gotten on the bed and grabbed John’s wrist in an iron grip. The look on his face was set in stone, as was his will. John did not want to bend to it, but something told him it was either that or quite literally _breaking_ ; the broken part being his wrist. The alternative was worse, though. John jerked his hand back, but Dave only followed. In a second, they were back in the same position as before. Dave towering over him. John felt short of breath already, and it made it so that Dave could get a word in before he could.

”It’s _just_ sleeping. Jesus Christ. This is my room. I should be able to sleep here.”

“Then let me go.”

“What? Why?” 

It was the stupidest question John had ever heard. He boiled over. “Because you’re a sick stalker freak who fucking _kidnapped_ me! You beat me! Locked me in a closet and fucking _starved_ me! And now you want to share a bed? Get the hell away from me! Let me go! Let m―”

The smack echoed off the walls, sounding so glaringly loud within the quiet of the night. It left the right side of John’s face burning, as if a phantom hand of fire was resting there, and his ear was ringing. He did not register Dave continuing to talk above him until the boy moved to lay beside him, putting that same hand that had slapped him on his waist and edging closer. “It’s just sleeping,” Dave repeated. His one arm was around John, and his chest was hot against John’s back. Yet Dave was keeping just an inch of space between them, knowing that John’s skin was in a delicate state. But again, the concern went right over John’s head, much to Dave’s disapproval. He was trying so hard to do it right. John was resisting his every attempt. He thrashed in Dave’s hold, pushing away from him. The space on the bed ran out, and John crashed to the floor with a loud thud. 

“Fucking hell, John― _Fine!_ You can sleep on the floor. Suit yourself.” 

John was not listening to Dave’s outburst, only the tone of which it carried. Angry and frustrated. Which could mean another fistful of pain for him. He scurried to his feet, running for the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him. There was no key, and he pressed his palms against it to keep it closed. To keep Dave out. But he heard no footsteps approaching, nothing stirring or rustling on the other side. Even when his breathing evened and he could hear more clearly, there was still nothing. John stumbled back a few steps, finding support against the sink. The tiles were cool against his skin, but they did not help to calm him down. He did not sleep that night. At all.


	4. Home Alone (But Not Quite)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Physical abuse (this is p much like every chapter oops) + Rape/Non-con
> 
> OKAY SO. This chapter is rly gross,,,,  
> And also, I couldn't get all of the italics to work in this?????? Idk why, but like, I'll probs go and fix it at one point or another  
> but like yeah here have a new chapter :v

John’s stomach began growling the moment he slipped back into consciousness, the afterglow of sleep making his body feel like lead. That, and his muscles―worst of all his back―ached from a night spent on hard tiles. If he had not slept at all, it would not have happened. He had no recollection of just how long he had been out for, but the fact that he _had been at all_  was unsettling. A minute, ten minutes, an hour. A lot could happen within that time. He shivered, stopping his train of thought before it could run off with him. He needed his head clear, for on the other side of that door awaited a demon, with red eyes and soft hands that could turn to claws in the matter of seconds. There was no lock on the door. Nothing but a piece of wood just a few inches thick between him and Dave, equipped with a loose handle. A single push would have the hinges thrown wide open.   

Carding a hand through his hair to try and soothe himself proved ineffective. His dark locks were knotted, his fingers catching and tugging sharply at his scalp. His thoughts were focused entirely on the present moment, not letting his attention wander elsewhere as it had done before he had fallen asleep. Images of the day that had transpired had invaded his mind’s eye, and he had almost been able to hear the crack of leather in the acoustics of the tiled walls. The memory had helped keep him awake, though he ultimately was overcome with sleep. What he regretted the most was that, even after a moment’s shuteye, he was not rested. His muscles were still taught, his body aching and heavy. The time he had lost sleeping was unsettling all the same. It was a hole in his memory, and he had a good enough imagination to fill it out. The images had his back itching.

Minutes ticked by, John able to keep vague count of them by the tick tock of his heartbeat. Slowly, he came to the unwilling conclusion that he could not barricade himself inside the bathroom forever, especially considering he had nothing but his body to withstand any potential intruder. Before the day he had woken up in a closet, he had thought himself to be of average height, just tall enough to avoid the classification of being short. But when Dave had stood before him, he had felt so immensely small. The boy had towered over his head, looking down upon him, and Bro was even worse; broad shoulders and a wide chest, rippled with muscles that he carried on the thick stilts he called legs. John felt so small. Even now, the bathroom seemed to grow out of proportions, the white walls stretching into an endless tunnel above his head, the sink so large he could sit beneath it like an umbrella, and the tub reflecting that of the ocean’s depths. He was small. So, so small in this world of giants.

But even the small could walk. John pushed himself out from under the sink, brazing himself against the tiled floor and getting to his feet. Standing up helped not on the inferior feeling surrounding him, nor the strained beating of his heart. Walking proved a bigger task than he had thought, and he almost thought he had to learn how to crawl again before getting it to work. Eventually, he managed to put one foot in front of the other. Then another, and another, and that was all it took for him to be right in front of the door. Now it was a matter of moving his hand, to make it reach for the handle and turn it. Step inside the bedroom and face Dave. The prospect of being within arms’ reach of the boy sent a cold shiver through him.

The hinges made an awful noise as the door was pushed open. John wished he had had something in hand, a lamp or anything like that first time, but his hands clenched around air. There were no movable objects in the bathroom, he had checked. Every cupboard, shelf, and drawer. Absolutely nothing. It did not feel like a place a person lived, it was much too clean and sterile. A surgical room had more personality.

John held his breath as he stepped into the other room. His eyes immediately fell upon the bed. The sheets were folded, laid out tidy atop the mattress and without a single wrinkle or crease in sight. It was as if no one had been there at all. Suspicion arose within him, heightening his senses, but not starting the alarms in his head. He walked in with light steps, looking around to every which side. A few lines of sun were peeking through the barred windows, letting him know that it was daytime. The light was bright and white, and he guessed it to be around midday. That idea bothered him, thinking back to his loss of time where he had dozed off. Part of him wanted to know how long he had been out for, whilst the other would rather it be a question unanswered. What he really wanted answers to was where Dave was. There was not a trace of him there. He had inhabited the room like a ghost and left just the same. John’s gaze went to his new challenge, the second door, the one that would lead him out of the bedroom and into unknown territory. But it seemed too big a step for him still.

He walked to the windows, backtracking and not turning a blind eye to the other door for even a second. Only when he made it to the opposite side of the room did he risk turning around. His nose pressed against the glass, hands coming up to shield his eyes from the glaring sun as he looked out the narrow spaces that the planks did not cover. A view opened up before him, short and without a horizon, tall building obscuring his view. A city. The room he was in was far up as he was able to look down on the roofs of some buildings, but there were taller buildings still. Looking at them, they seemed ready to tilt over and turn to rubble. The windows were gray and cloudy with dust, cracked or barricaded. The concrete walls were crumbling, giving the structure an unsteady foundation that would only take minimal effort to cease to exist at all. Falling apart and turning skyscrapers into ruins. John could only imagine what the building he currently found himself in looked like. The streets below were almost empty, old, abandoned cars littering the road like trash, and the concrete cracked. Only a few people were out, looking like dots of muted color floating around. Though he knew there was no way anyone could hear him, he could not stop his own hands from beating against the window.

“Help!” John beat at the glass with open palms. “Help me! Look up! I’m― I can’t― Help me! Help! _Look up!_ ” The dots remained floating, unaware of the desperate pleas spilling from a boy’s lips from high above them. John felt like crying all over again. His hands slid down the glass, falling to his sides as he took steps backwards. The tears were kept in. He would not walk out of the room bawling his eyes out, he did not want to cry in front of those two men again. The dark amusement was still a stark memory in his mind from when he had been bent over the bed, stretched out with his shirt obscuring his view and a blazing pain upon his back. And that huff of air he had heard in Bro’s voice, an undeniable chuckle after he had struck hell into John’s skin. He could still feel it, that hell fire.

Standing in front of the door that inevitably would bring him face to face with his abductors had his knees go weak. The handle turned, and he realized that it was actually unlocked. Like a bear trap, just waiting for him to step into it so it could shut its jaws tight around him. But the trap had yet to activate. John opened up to a short corridor, doors on either side of the narrow space. At the end of it, it opened up to a kitchen and living room where the corner of a TV could be seen, flickering with some show on the screen. Someone was up. John found his feet dragging him backwards, but just then a door opened to his right.

“G’morning.” Bro’s voice was heavy with sleep, and one could imagine the bags he must have had under his eyes behind those triangular shades. Despite the slump to his shoulders, he still stood tall before John, a brick wall on two legs, craned over just slightly like the buildings John had watched through the window. John stopped moving altogether. Bro was just standing there, shirtless and scratching at a particular scar on his hip bone― his pale skin was starred with even paler scars, some pink and fresh looking whilst others were almost white. Some were long and reached all the way from shoulder to his navel. Some were short but deep, having a much deeper color than the others. Some were shallow and unnoticeable in comparison. He had a tattoo. A big one that covered half of his chest. It resembled that of an anatomical heart, black and white in detail, the arteries sticking out a few good inches, and half of the heart was inked properly. The other half was left in only lines, thick and sketchy looking, veins engraved into Bro’s skin. John felt his own heart, the real one beating inside his chest, squeeze tight as air caught in his throat, his legs becoming rooted to the floor. He held Bro’s gaze―he could feel it, just as he had been able to feel it roaming his back the last time―and he gaped like a fish. The least intimidating thing about the man was the toothbrush hanging out between his teeth, a bit of white toothpaste at the crook of his mouth. The sight was almost domestic.

”Close yer mouth, kid.” John’s jaws shut with more force than he had meant to, teeth clinking together. “You were the one makin’ all that noise before.” It was said as a matter of fact, Bro well knowing that between the now three residences of the place, only one of them would be dumb enough to squawk like a bird, repeatedly flying headfirst into the window because it was too stupid to realize it was a transparent barrier. John gulped, flinching slightly at how loud it was. Bro spoke again, having taken the toothbrush out of his mouth. “I doubt I need remind you of yesterday,” he said and brought up a hand to wipe the white off of his mouth. “With the way you were moaning like a lil bitch, I’d say the message came out clear enough.”

It was almost laughable how easy John was to read. His brows came together in a frown, every muscle in his face turning down, and his hands balled up into fists by his sides. Bro let out a chuckle. “Hey, I was just doin’ what needed done. Nothin’ personal.”

“What period are you stuck in to think a beating is necessary?” The words spilled from John’s mouth quicker than he had time to think. They caught up with him, his demeanor wavering. It received a whistle from Bro, a short tune of amusement.

“Hoo, someone got the wrong leg outta bed― or should I say the sink?”

John’s face flared. Bro knew. Knew where he had spent the night, and that information settled as a lump in his throat. It was hard to speak around it. “I didn’t exactly feel like sleeping with the guy who kidnapp―”

His back collided with the wall, sending a flood of pain through him, drawing out a strangled cry― strangled because Bro’s thick fingers were wound tightly around it. That hand squeezed his windpipe, nails digging in, and John gasped for air. His own hands reached up, clawing at the man’s wrist to no avail. Bro was made of ice, solid and unfazed by his attempts. And cold. Bro leaned in close, breath fanning over John’s mouth, the smell of mint filling his nostrils like a fresh chill. There were rows of sparkly white teeth behind the man’s lips. His incisors were sharp, and he looked a predator, baring his fangs at his next kill. John tried screaming, but no sound nor air could make it past the grip Bro had on him. The ground began to disappear beneath his feet. John kicked desperately, Bro’s hold becoming tighter still as he was lifted up by the throat, dangling in the air and supported only by the wall behind him and Bro’s strength. The man no longer had to crane his neck down to be able to be face to face with John, not as he was bringing the boy up to be on his level. His voice came out a rumbling threat;

“What did I say about being grateful?” John answered with a gurgling sound, kicking the air. “Sounds like you’re really gonna keep me busy, eh? Handin’ out lessons left and right just to teach your spoiled ass a thing or two about common decency.” Bro’s grip tightened, making John gasp breathlessly. “Normally, I wouldn’t mind. Hell, last day was a damn fine session, but this is just too fuckin’ early in the mor―”  
”It’s almost 1 am.”

Neither of them had noticed Dave approaching, and neither of them turned their head towards him. John did not because he could not move at all, and Bro because his gaze was firmly glued to the writhing boy in his hand. With every strained breath John tried to take, he could feel his Adam’s apple tremble against the palm of his hand, urging him to put more pressure on. But one sidelong glance at his brother, and Bro reconsidered. Dave was standing there defensively, fists by his sides. He had always been protective of his things, Bro just had a hard time wrapping his head around why he would want to take claim to this particular boy. John was a risk, simple as that. John was on the list, and he would be until they delivered the evidence that the job had been followed through. That the Egbert heritage was cut short. Dave was doing an awful lot to make a simple task difficult.

“It’s mornin’ when I damn well wake up,” Bro responded after a moment, his nostrils flaring. “The little shit was making noise. Thought I’d go see what was up.”

“He didn’t wake you.” Dave said it bluntly. The vexation was radiating off of the older man, and Dave was concerned that those big hands of his would leave a mark on John’s throat. It was delicate, he knew.

“Doesn’t mean I appreciate the ruckus he keeps makin’.”

“But he didn’t wake you up. You were already awake.”

“Your point?”

“He didn’t disturb you.”

A harsh laugh released from deep within Bro’s gut. The fingers around John’s throat loosened just a little, dropping him back on the floor but still keeping his back against the wall. Something that had John grit his teeth together, his nails still digging into Bro’s wrist.

“Did you not hear the shit he was spewing?” Finally, Bro turned his head towards Dave. “He was shoutin’ to high heavens for someone to come save his petty ass. Ain’t that a nice way to reward our hospitality?”

Dave bristled. His shoulders rose up higher, and the way he flexed his muscles could be seen beneath the snug fitting shirt he wore. It was a cause of both amusement and annoyance in Bro.

“Yer haven’t explained to him his little predicament just yet, have ya?”

The question was a slap to the face judging by the way Dave reeled back for just a moment, then putting both feet in front of him and storming up. It was not fear that had Bro raise both hands in the air, stepping away from John and letting Dave force his way between the two of them; it was that of delectation. The answer Bro got to his question was curt and short―a simple “No”―Dave clearly not wanting to dive into a conversation like that.    

Bro pointed his toothbrush in John’s direction, the boy peeking out from behind the human shield that was Dave. “You don’t think that plays a pretty big part in all of this? You oughta tell him. Give the thing some clarity―”

“I’m not a _thing _,__ ” John barked out. He received an inclination of Bro’s head, but his focus had directed to Dave. There was some small relief in that for John. He rubbed at his sore throat, feeling the imprint of Bro’s fingers and nails on his skin, trying hard to swallow.

“Just sayin’. If you want the kid to give two shits of gratitude, you should tell him. Everythin’.” A toothy grin split Bro’s face in two, giving a shrug of his wide shoulders. “Or do as I, keep ‘im on a short leash.”  

“That’s not what this is.”

Bro scoffed. “Not what this is?”

“It’s not. I’m help―”

“Helping yourself, yeah.”

” _No._ ”

“It’s a’right. Just try ‘n keep an eye on him. I mean, look, he’s about ready to make a run for it.”

John stopped dead in his tracks, flinching at his mention. Dave’s head whipped around, seeing the boy standing a few feet away and on his tiptoes. The frown that came upon Dave’s face had John rendered immovable.

“Just shut up, okay, Bro? I got this. I don’t need you butting in.”

“Sure,” the man said, giving another shrug and a sly grin. “But you’re dealin’ with the payment tonight.”

“What? Fuck no.”

“Fuck yes.”

“No, I’m not fucking leaving.”

“Fuck yeah you are. You owe me.”

“I don’t owe you shi―”

Bro was quick to interrupt him, taking a threatening step forward and putting the sole of his foot harder into the ground than necessary. “Notice where you are standing. The roof above your head. The fact that you ain’t fuckin’ starved on the side of the road, contemplatin’ jumping into traffic. And that your precious little boy toy isn’t there with you.”

The urge to correct Bro, to tell him that it was _not like that_ came over Dave again, but he bit down on his tongue. With a single nod of his head, the man finally relented. There was a tsk and then steps were made towards the door opposite of where Bro had come from, leaving Dave and John alone in the corridor. The tension was heavy, but compared to the one before, it felt like feathers. John did not say a thing, staying right where he was and scared of making a single move. Dave was doing the same, standing still and rigid in his place, the only sign of motility being the tremble of his hands, still balled up by his sides. With one deep breath, Dave suddenly became reanimated.

“You must be hungry, right?” John did not answer. The expression he wore was one of anticipation and wariness, not a hint of trust in him. Dave did his best to not show how it bothered him. He turned around, walking past John and towards the kitchen. It was baffling, seeing the other boy’s back, and John could not determine if it was an attempted trap or a gullible sign of the trust that John himself lacked. In the end, it did not matter to him. In the next second, just as Dave rounded the corner leading to the kitchen, John bolted down the corridor. The unfamiliar surroundings passed by in a flash, but he recognized the characteristics of an entrance. A hanging rack, a door with a lock, and a row of shoes. John went for it, the first time that day he did not hesitate to grab the doorknob and pulling at it. And the first time that day that he was met with an unyielding blockade. All other doors had let him through, but the last did not budge. John refused to acknowledge the confidence of his captors’ that it expressed. A confidence that escaping was an impossibility.

The doorknob rattled with how hard John was pulling at it. “Come on, come on, come on! Fucking― Help! Please!” His fists pounded against the door, and he could hear it echo on the other side. “Help! I’m trapped! Help me! I―”

“ _SHUT UP ALREADY._ ”

The roar had John flinching. It came from down the corridor, inside of the room that Bro had disappeared into, but the man’s voice was voluminous enough to pierce through walls. John stopped, both hands gripping the doorknob, squeezing it, shaking. The mantra of pleas was whispered against the door, nothing but incoherent words.

“Sorry to say...” Dave’s voice came from close behind him, John whipping around and seeing his own reflection in those dark sunglasses; tears had welled up in his eyes, but his face was a furious scowl. Dave was but a breath away from him, his breath ghosting across John’s face as he spoke. “... but you’re wasting your voice on nothing. No one. This place has been empty since― well, shit, I don’t exactly remember. Before I came to, I suppose, so a shit long time. It’s pretty much a ghost town, so unless you’re some kind of a medium, I don’t think you’re gonna get far doin’ that.”

Dave turned around again, heading for the kitchen, but adding one last comment and glancing back at John. “Not to say you would get much help from talking to ghosts, either.”  

John’s hands would not let go of the doorknob. Even when the two of them did nothing but look at each other, he did not move. Not even when Dave returned to the kitchen did he move. For a moment, John was left to himself, finding a brief feeling of solace in the hand on the handle. Dave made him a toast, using white bread because he knew John was allergic to nuts, and he did not want to take the risk. It was his job now to protect John, and he never did a job half-assed. He never did, and that was why he did as Bro had ordered. He left later that evening, to go take care of the last loose ends of their most recent job. It was with great reluctance that he did, not liking the idea of John being alone with Bro. Yet he left anyway, with a feeling that he was doing right by his brother and earning his keep.

The apartment grew eerily quiet after Dave’s departure. There was a tick, tock, tick, tock from a clock in the living room, counting the time passing by ever slowly. John tried to shut it out and concentrate his hearing on all other sounds. There was nothing. Safe for the sound of time, it was dead quiet. Dave was no longer there to fill out the silence, straining John’s ears in the process and making his stomach churn with the intimacies he dropped. Small details, delusional memories, and future dreams. He had had to force down the toast Dave had made for him, feeling like throwing it up mid-chew. They had been sitting at the small kitchen counter for the whole duration of the afternoon. Dave was content just talking, sharing his every thought with John and trying to coax the boy to return the favor. But he had had no such luck. John was speechless, only humoring Dave with a few scarce words and contorting grimaces.

He listened to the quiet in between the tick, tock. Still nothing. Bro had not showed his face since the incident in the corridor, only making his presence known when his heavy feet had shuffled from one room to the other, but never stepping inside of the living room or kitchen. The man must live on air and sunlight alone. John was alone. He was alone in a moment full of opportunities.

There were objects lining every space in the living room. Pictures, books, movies, shelves with knick knacks, technological devices, forgotten plants that had wilted and died. And the kitchen was a goldmine. John eyed the corridor nervously. He could only see a few feet of it, the rest hidden behind a corner, but there was no one there. Not a shadow. It was still quiet. The kitchen was just on the other side of the counter. Drawers filled with cutlery, with knives. He could arm himself. He could go find that set of keys Dave had had hanging from his hip that first time. He could get out of here. But he needed to move. Getting off of the chair was terrifying. His hands fidgeted in his lap, eyes constantly flickering up to look at the still empty corridor. It took three deep breaths for him to collect himself and put his feet on the floor. Every step was a risk he was taking, growing bigger and bigger the closer he came to the kitchen drawers. When he came so close that he could reach out and open it, his heart was pounding so loudly that he could not hear the clock no more. Neither could he hear the steps coming up behind him.   

John did not get to scream before a hand was fisted in his hair and shoving him forward. A blinding pain exploded in his face when he was slammed against the counter. The impact left him dizzy and his glasses askew, but aware of the body pressing up against him from behind, and the fingers wound tightly into his knotted locks. He was being reeled back and away from the counter before he could get his wits around him again, only conscious enough to reach both hands up to grab the one buried in his hair. Keeping up with the long strides he was forced to be taking was difficult, and he tripped more than once, suffering a sharp tug to his scalp. They reached the living room, and John was thrown to the floor like a dead weight. His ass took the fall before he tilted onto his back, then promptly rolling to be on his side at the burn. Only then did he notice the trickle of blood coming from his nose, running past his lips. “Fuck...”

“Fuck is right.” The voice came from high above him. John looked up, shrinking in fear at the tower of a man. Bro. His face had hardened significantly. “Wanted to grab somethin’ pointy now, did ya?”

“N-no! No, that’s not―” The air left him as a boot dug into his gut with a sharp kick.

“I got two functionin’ eyes behind these glasses. Don’t lie to me.”

“Fu― Fuck... Jesus Christ, can you really blame me?” Bro gave him a curious look. “Y-you fuckers just _took_ me! You expect me to be goddamn _happy_ about it?”

“Never told ya to be happy.”

“Oh, my bad. I meant _grateful _,__ ” John hissed it with venom in his voice. His tongue was sharpened and defensive, and he was desperately trying to make it sound steady, too. But it shook, the pitch was too high, and he knew he was looking all but surefooted as he tried getting back up. The ground seemed to slip beneath his sweaty palms, and whenever he did manage to put his weight on his arms, they gave way. The kick to his stomach had hit just right. He could practically feel the imprint of Bro’s boot.

The man gave a groan at John’s words, though not directed at him. “So Dave didn’t tell ya yet.”

“Tell me what?”

“I’m tempted to spill the beans, but... No, that really is for Dave to do. Lil’ man gots to take some responsibility.” Bro watched John struggle to regain his foothold, then continued talking. “Would be nice for him to do it soon. Might put a dampener on this piss poor attitude o’ yours.”

“Let me go then if you hate it so much,” John growled back, finally getting into a sitting position.

“Nah, that’s the wrong word for it.” That dark amusement was back in Bro’s voice, and John _really_ had to get back on his feet. He scrambled, kicking his legs on the floor to get away, but he could not get out of arms’ reach fast enough. Bro grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. With a hard yank of the fabric, John was sent tumbling forward and dragged as Bro took a seat on the futon standing in the living room. John was pulled to sit between the man’s spread out legs, and he was no fool to the position. He jerked back, but the hand previously in his shirt found its way back into his hair, and Bro threw a leg over his shoulder. The heel of Bro’s boot pushed against his lower back, creating a burn on the fragile, wounded skin. John instinctively arched his spine to get away from the sensation, but could do little moving with Bro’s leg heavy upon him and a hand grabbing his hair. It forced John to meet the other’s gaze, unable to lower his head. The sunglasses did not cover up the grin stretching those stubbly cheeks. “I think the proper word would be endearing.”

“Let me go. Let me― _Don’t_ touch me!” John drew his head back as much as he could when a thumb came down, smearing more than wiping off the blood on his upper lip. “Get your hands off of me!” The hand drew back, Bro cocking his head down at the boy between his legs. A furious thing, snarling even when bloodied and roughed up. And impossibly loud still.

“You don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

“I won’t shut up opposed to taking your shi― What the fuck are you doing?”

One hand was secured tight in John’s hair, but the other had edged down Bro’s stomach, coming right above his crotch. He rubbed it with an open palm, his head inclined towards John as if it was not happening. John wished it was not.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

”What? You were sayin’ something. Continue.”

“No! What the hell? You sick piece of― Ow!”

Bro pulled sharply at his hair, drawing John’s head just a few inches forward. Before tumbling over completely, John brazed himself against the futon, pushing back against the pressure on his head. Bro’s other hand was still rubbing at his groin, right in front of John’s face. He wore sweatpants, tight around his hips but loose all other places. The fabric was beginning to become tighter. A tent was forming beneath Bro’s hand, eventually big enough that the outline of his cock could be seen clearly. The sight caused bile to rise in John’s throat.

“No. No, no, no, no. I’m not― Let me go. I’m not doing this. Let me go. Let me― Let me go!” John’s voice took a pitch even higher, panic rising within it. He grabbed the wrist of the hand in his hair, shaking his head wildly to try and get free. He did not care if it costed him a chunk of hair, he would shave his whole head if it could get him out of the man’s grip.

“You never sucked cock before?”

“Let me go!”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

“Fuck your questio― Stop!” Bro’s hand had stopped stroking himself in favor of pulling down his sweats, and John could not pry his eyes away. It was like being held at gunpoint; if he was getting shot, he would see the bullet that pierced him. The elastic of the pants gave way easily, Bro pulling them down to show off the bulge in his briefs. It was big, was all John could tell. He stopped his thoughts from furthering the observations, putting his all into getting away from Bro’s hands. The grip on him did not budge, and the leg swung over his shoulder pressed him closer with ease. John could not keep pushing back on it, and the one time he paused to get a better grip on the futon, Bro seized the moment. John was sent diving forward, face down in Bro’s crotch. The entirety of John’s body contracted, thrown into a fit of nerves as he desperately tried to push away while Bro’s hand was doing the opposite, but stronger. The man moved his hips just slightly, the bulging mass in his briefs rubbing up against John’s cheek. The underwear became stained with just a few drops of tears before John was allowed to pull back.

The hand, ever present in his hair, did not allow it for long, though. “Don’t! Please, please, don’t! I― I w-won’t try to― To― I’ll s-stay quiet, I’ll―” Bro was pulling his briefs down, his cock bouncing in the air once it was released. There was a groan from the man, and a sob from John. “O-oh g-g-god, please, don’t. I w-won’t make a s-sound any-anymore, I promise!” The thing was long, the underside decorated with silver studs from base to just below the head. The metal shone just as the tears on John’s face did. “P-please, don’t. Let me go. Let me go, let me go, let me go―!” Bro pulled him forward, the tip of his cock nudging against John’s lips. John sealed them tight.

“Cryin’ already?” Bro chuckled, tugging at John’s hair to see how the boy winced within his grip. “Haven’t even gotten started and yer already bawling your eyes out. But at least you shut up.”

With slight rolls of his hips, he pushed his cock insistently at John’s closed mouth, watching as those lips quivered. But his patience was running thin. Bro used the hand not in John’s hair to grab the boy’s nose, pinching it and cutting off his source of air, leaving him only with his mouth if he wanted to breathe. Those blue eyes blew open at the shocking realization of his ultimatum, never ceasing in his struggles, but neither being able to throw Bro off. The sun kissed cheeks began changing color, and Bro could barely handle the anticipation building inside of him at the sight. His cock throbbed, aroused by just the picture of John on his knees, between his legs, and crying a river with a smear of blood on his lips. For just a moment, he could understand Dave’s appeal.

John’s lips parted suddenly with a gasp, trying to breathe, but his head was shoved down before he had the chance to, being denied oxygen even as he had complied. The man’s cock pried his jaws apart, the piercings knocking against his teeth painfully as Bro wasted no time in forcing his head down. Further and further until he was taking in half. Already it felt like an impossible stretch. The shaft was thick, his lips thin around it, and it pressed down on his tongue that twitched in an effort to get it _out _.__  Bro gave a grunt of approval above him, and the sound had John’s stomach churn again. The need to vomit washed over him as Bro began to roll his hips, his cock pushing in further. The urge to bite down was so strong. John did nothing to suppress it.

A howl of pain left Bro, jerking the boy and his teeth off of his dick. There was the slightest dent just an inch past half of its length. He clicked his tongue, nostrils flaring. John was gasping for air while he could, thrashing his body around to get loose, but his little stunt only made the hands on him grip tighter, harder, intent on leaving bruises. Bro kept one hand firmly in those dark locks, the other grabbing John by his chin.

“Fucking punk. You like it rough, huh? Why don’t we give you somethin’ to actually cry about?” Bro sneered, talking through gritted teeth. His hand on John’s chin moved to the plump cheeks, and he dug into the flesh with his nails. John’s jaws gave in, parting, and it was but for a few seconds that Bro spent outside of the boy’s mouth. He slipped his cock back inside with a thrust of his hips, tugging on John’s head to meet him halfway. The studs knocked against those chompers again, sending ripples of sharp pleasure through him. He could feel all of it, how John’s throat tightened around the large intrusion, the heat and the warmth, and the vibrations of the pathetic noises rising on John’s tongue but never making it out. Still, the boy was far from taking in all of him. Those pretty pink lips came to a stop at just a little past half of his length, leaving plenty for the taking, but already the boy was struggling. John gurgled, saliva gathering in his mouth and pooling out of the corners, dribbling down his chin, and his cheeks looked fit to bursting with how Bro’s dick was filling him up. The view was amazing from atop the couch. His girth twitched at the sight, popping a vein as all blood rushed south.

Weak noises of protest squeezed out between John’s lips and the dick in his mouth, growing louder and more desperate as the man kept applying pressure to the back of his head, forcing him down further. John’s hands shook as he brought them up to push against Bro’s thighs, his hips, beating against his stomach to no avail. There was no easing the passage. He choked around the massive piece in his mouth, the barbels lining the shaft sliding against his tongue. As Bro shoved another inch after inch inside, he felt that same metal reach the back of his throat. He convulsed, throat tightening, and he choked. Violent coughs went through him, but they never breached the surface. Instead, they shook him, riding pain through his body and gathering in his chest as an increasing ache.

“Ooooh, fuck, yes...” Lewd noises were coming from above him. John’s eyes were squeezed shut, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, but he could not shut off his hearing. Bro was grunting, an animalistic sound that rumbled in his chest, and he would occasionally moan. Those times being when John tried and failed to swallow, but gave the same intense sensations running through his shaft. The boy’s mouth was tight and wet, coating his throbbing cock with a slick heat that he wanted so badly to ram into. To have John’s mouth engulf him completely and see the way those pretty blues would bulge out of their eye sockets as he fucked John’s throat. Frightened hands were leaving red lines upon his skin wherever they touched, but Bro could not find it in him to care. The sting of it was welcome. Later, though, he would have to teach John to retract his claws. Already, Bro was looking forward to it.

The head of his cock hit the back of John’s throat, hard. Everything in the boy tightened, sending his body into a fit of shaking limbs and miserable, choked noises. “For it being your first ti―aaah, shit―first time, yer not half bad.” The praise was sour in John’s ears, Bro knew, but there was no denying how much the older man was enjoying himself. He began to pick up a rhythm, using both hands to ram his dick inside of John’s face. He went faster, raising his hips to meet each jerk of the boy’s head, hitting the back each time and plunging deep down his throat. The way those weak noises vibrated around his overtly sensitive member had him throwing his head back against the futon.

The fight in John was ebbing away slowly, pounded into the ground with each hard thrust. His jaws were aching, and his hands had gone weak. They clung to Bro’s thighs rather than pushing. Keeping himself conscious was easier than protesting, but still a challenge. He did not want to give over his limp body to the man, but neither did he want to stay awake for the endgame. It hurt. It was humiliating. It tasted awful, and it just hurt so bad, and he was _scared_.  

Bro gave a particularly loud groan, and John’s head was held down completely still in his lap, so close that the coarse hairs at the base of Bro’s cock tickled against John’s upper lip. Two breaths later, and a thick, warm substance was shooting down his throat. John made a startled noise. He could not swallow, his throat would not cooperate, or maybe it was the thought of having to swallow _Bro’s cum_  that was blocking the way down. Bro’s dick twitched, spilling inside of John, feeling how cum began to gather in his cheeks and coat his cock with more than just saliva. Holding the boy down, forcing him to take it all, he waited. His hips rocked steadily, letting his dick poke the back of John’s throat. “C’mon, kid,” he hummed. “Be a big boy and swallow. All of it.”

John could not. He was sobbing, gagging around the girth of Bro. When Bro finally pulled out, he doubled over, coughing and hacking, everything coming back up. To keep his head up was too much, and he pressed it to the floor, completely curling in on himself, shoulders shaking violently with each harsh intake of air. Cum dripped onto the floor from his mouth, his tongue sticking out; he wanted to cut it off just to get rid of the taste. Something nudged at his head, disturbing his moment of agony.

“Hey, get up. Look at the mess you made.” Bro still had his cock out, stroking it absently as he waited for himself to go flaccid, all the while watching John break down; like he had the front row seats to the greatest tragedy of all time, but the crease of his brow made it clear he thought it just a bit too cliche. It was a pretty sight, no doubt, but he could only stand John’s crying for so long. Having those soft lips around his cock made him much more tolerant. He tugged himself back into his pants. “Clean this shit up.”

The demand was met with a deathly scowl from John, looking up at Bro through teary eyes and unruly hair, his face a mess of cum and salty tears. But he did not rush to talk back. It was progress in John’s behavior. Even more so was how the boy flinched away from Bro’s touch when he leaned down to caress his cheek. Bro no longer smelled of minty toothpaste. John could not put a finger on the smell, he was sniffling too much to take in anything, but it sent a wave of repulsion through him. That big, bruising hand patted his cheek, Bro’s mouth giving a sharp smile. “ ‘n don’t say a thing to Dave, yeah? The guy’s a bit immature, I guess you could say, when it comes to these things. He’ll come around, ‘m sure. But till then, this stays between me and that sweet lil’ mouth o’ yours. Understood?”

Bro did not wait for approval. He pushed John back suddenly, sending the boy sprawling onto his ass on the floor and giving the prettiest little whimper. Bro was back to towering above John when he got back on his feet, standing there for just a moment longer to take in the sight. Before turning on his heels, he added: “Oh, and―what was your name again? John?―try pulling that shit with the knives again, and I’ll shove one of them up your ass.” The tone in which he spoke had John not doubting the sincerity of it.

The room returned to the quiet once Bro left, only a tick, tock, tick, tock to be heard, and John’s rugged breathing. When Dave came home, he found John to be sitting the same place he had left him. John did not respond to his cheery greeting, nor his long stretched complaint about traffic and cars with smoky engines. He did not respond at all. He did not talk at all. And he spent another night sleeping beneath the sink after Dave had forcibly dragged him to Dave’s― _their _―__ bedroom.   


	5. A Choice Between Shit and Deeper Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Rape/Non-con (like shit dude, it's half this chapter)
> 
> SORRY FOR THE WAIT, AGAIN. exams are ten inches up my ass yet again and kinda taking up a lot of time. buuuuuuut i finally got around to making a new chapter! AND i fixed some mistakes in the earlier ones, nothing major just a bit of grammar and shit like that :y
> 
> this chapter ends kinda abruptly, but it was getting a bit long so i decided to save some for the next chapter :o  
> and yeh, the title is fucking shit but honestly i am giving up on the titles omfg
> 
> EDIT: lmao i forgot about Bro's goddamn piercings, i added that in real quick. nothing of note, just a few short inputs about piercings is all :y

Dave’s bed had never felt quite as empty as it did with John around. The boy refused to so much as sit on it, taking permanent residence in the conjoined bathroom every night. He would not eat in front of Dave, but he was eating at least. Dave could tell as much from the empty plate he would come back to, picking it up to throw it in the dishes together with the other two. It was only getting worse, John’s absence, and Dave was at a loss of what to do. The only progress they had made since John’s arrival was the noise. John was no longer screaming to high heavens for someone to come save him. It did not mean he was not still hoping. Many a time, Dave would open the door to the sight of John by the window, looking through the planks that obscured most of his view, watching the dirty streets beneath them. It felt like an insult to Dave each time.

“It won’t do you any good, y’know?” The only response Dave would get would be a slight inclination of John’s head, a sidelong glance, or a twitch of the boy’s shoulders. “They can’t see you from way up here. I mean, hell, maybe if they had a pair of binoculars, but I doubt anyone in this neighborhood thinks that a good investment. Typically, people have better things to do than look up at the sky. Speaking of which, they rarely ever look down either, if only to watch their own two feet to make sure they don’t all up and trip over themselves on the way to the drugstore, about to get a lil somethin’ to get them through the day.”

John would be as motionless as always, unresponsive to Dave’s ramblings. Yet Dave knew exactly how to get a response out of the other. All it took was a touch. John’s whole body would quake beneath his fingertips, reeling around with a flare of anger to face him, lips pulled back and showing those straight lined teeth. Dave had not been there for when John had his braces, but he knew that no one’s teeth could straighten out like that on their own. As a teen, his teeth were a far cry in comparison to the childhood pictures that Dave had managed to snatch. One thing that had remained the same were John’s eyes and expressions, his heart still worn on his sleeve. Even when he was turning to Dave, shouting at him in a fit of rage as his frustrations piqued. It was the same every time. An entree of questions. Dave would rather avoid them, but he knew that they would never cease if they were left unanswered. Eventually, he swallowed around the lump in his throat, and the next time he came to John, finding the boy lost with his eyes locked on the outside world, he was prepared to give some clarity.

“It’s been a week,” he began by saying. The door to the bedroom closed behind him, the lock clicking. “I usually give things three times, and if the third ain’t the charm, then I drop that bitch like it’s hot. You’ve been staring out that window how many times now?” That had been a honest question, but John did not catch on. Dave humored him, continuing to talk. “You can’t go outside. I’ve already told you that. Besides, there honestly isn’t that much to go out fo―”

“Why?”

An interruption. Dave felt his fingers itch, but ignored it. He had come with a cause, actually taking Bro’s advice and finally intending to lay the truth out for John to see. Wetting his lips with his tongue, Dave took in a deep breath. “It’s dangerous out there for you, at least right now it is.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re dead.”

The bluntness to how Dave said it had John turn to face him fully. John’s mouth was lax, eyes narrowed and his brows close together. “Dead?” he questioned, as if he did not know the meaning of the word. “I’m dead?”

Dave nodded. “Yup. Dead as dead can be to them.”

“Them?”

“The public.”

“The public?” Everything John said was a question, a confused echo of Dave’s words. “What are you talking about?”

“A’ight. That’s gonna take a whole lot more explaining, so why don’t we have a seat, yeah?” John did not make a move. “Or stay right there, have it your way.”

A particular bitterness flashed across the brunet’s face then, features contorting in anger and drawing lines on his skin. Dave watched the shadows fall into each fold, John’s face taking on an expression he had not yet seen on the boy. It was anger, fear, puzzlement, anticipation. Tight lips, narrow eyes, flaring nostrils, drawn back shoulders, and a pushed out chest. It was captivating. Dave observed John through dark lenses, wishing he had his camera in hand to immortalize the moment and later hang it up alongside the rest of the fragments of time he had been fast enough to capture. He kept so many paper-thin time capsules stocked away, most of them with John as the motive. That boy had become his muse. Those blues burned holes in the photographic paper with their intensity, but the mess of hair atop the boy’s head framed his face to keep the eyes from setting the whole picture aflame. When the light hit just right, it would look like a halo crested on his head from the contrast between sunlight and dark locks, and Dave knew he was pulling cliches, but the boy was the image of an angel. When he had held that chloroform to John’s mouth, it had felt like stealing a small piece of heaven.

Now, he had the boy’s wings tied down and had rendered him flightless, feeding him by the palm of his hand but being rejected each time. John did not understand what was happening, and Dave could not blame him. Everything had happened so fast, Dave had not been fully aware of his own actions until much later. Having John stuffed away in a closet had been one of his better ideas. It had allowed him to think, something he was usually quick on the trigger with, but just then his thoughts had been knotted and incoherent, and he had needed the space, the quiet, and the time to gather his wits. Apparently he still needed it.

“Are you going to tell me, or what?”

Dave snapped back to attention. “Oh, right. Yeah, sure. But unlike you, I’m gonna take a seat, because knowing me and knowing you, this is gonna be hell of a long ride.”

That same bitterness from before crossed John’s face, eyes not leaving the other as Dave went to take a seat on the bed. It dipped beneath his weight as he all but dropped down on it, creasing up the nicely folded sheets. Their eyes met briefly, unbeknownst to John as he could not tell what was going on behind those sunglasses of Dave’s. They shrouded the boy in anonymity. It was the only thing John could understand. If he did what Dave and Bro were doing, he would want to hide his face, too. He waited expectantly for Dave to continue talking, and he finally did.

“So. You seemed a bit upset about being dead.”

“Add that to the list of things I’m _upset_ about.”

“I don’t see the big idea. I mean, I’m dead, too. It’s no biggie. The afterlife is pretty sweet if you ask me, like okay sure we can’t quite phase through walls like ghosts or nothin’, but there’s a reason people invented doors, so I think we’ll be just fine.”

“I’m not dead!”

“To them you are.”

“And who the fuck is _them_?”

“The public, I already told you that.”

“You’re not telling me shit! You’re just spewing incoherent bullshit that’s making no sense! Why the hell am I here? Why’d you take me? What do you _want_ from me?!”

John may as well have been talking to a deaf man. Dave was lacking in response to the other’s outburst, his hands neatly laced together in his lap and his head turned towards John. There was nothing tense in his posture as he simply listened to John’s anger. It almost looked fitting for Dave to ask John _‘How does that make you feel?’_. To psychoanalyze him and write a check once their therapy session was over. John could not keep his cool, he had not been able to since the day he was brought here. He turned on his heels and walked back to the window, but his eyes would not concentrate on the outside world. With his shoulders drawn up to be level with his ears, he nearly shook from the frustrations within him. He was getting nowhere here. He was getting nowhere with this conversation, and Dave was making no sense, and his head could not make sense of it on its own either. He was getting nowhere, but Dave was getting off of the bed and coming towards him.

The footsteps approaching were the first warning. John whirled around, realizing the mistake he had made of turning his back to the other, and his hands came up in preparation to put space between the two of them once more. But Dave stopped in his step a foot away, not trying to touch John as he would have done previously. John was uncertain about whether he felt good about that or not. In this place, one of the few things he could find a sense of comfort in was routine and the predictable. Dave’s patience was unexpected.

“Okay,” Dave said quietly. “I’ll be straight and to the point. I’ll make it as clear as possible. Cut it into bite-sized pieces for you to swallow, yeah?” He had thought he was already doing that, answering John’s questions with as few words as he could manage. Although his tongue still got the better of him most of the time. But he was trying, and John refused to recognize that. Dave would have thought the boy would know enough about him by now to tell that he was talkative. Talking when he was nervous, happy, scared, it was all a means of defense and expression to Dave. The silence was a force to be reckoned with, and he did not want to take up the challenge of facing it, so he decided to keep it at bay instead. John was slow at realizing this it would seem, or he simply chose to ignore it. Dave did not want to believe in the latter.

“So, the lay of the land is this: You’re dead. Not in the literal sense like hello Mr. Reaper, no. In theory, you’re dead. To put it simply, as I promised, we staged your death. Or mostly me. Bro made me do all the hard thinking because he was still a bit pissy about my―”

“You staged my death?!” John close to shouted, and Dave actually winced. Bro had told them to keep quiet.

“Yes. We did. I did. But it was for your own good, you see―”

“How the _fuck_ could that be for my own good?”

An interruption. Dave had to take a moment to force down a breath that threatened to get stuck in his throat, but when he did, he continued talking.  
”It could be for your own good if, say, someone was out to kill you. For real kill you. See, the logic here is that if you die first, then those suckers can’t get to do it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the _them_ in question. I can’t put a name to the faceless, nor a face to the nameless, but there are some people out there who’s got money to spend on hit men to do the dirty job for th―”

“Hit men? What the hell?”

Another interruption. Dave could see past it for the time being, but he still had to steady himself for just a moment. “It’s a profession. You’ve seen enough movies to know what it entails. And also to know what I mean when I say that you were on the list. I was told to kill you, John, but I didn’t. I sav―”

“Fucking _Christ_.” John was interrupting again. “What about my dad? Is this because of his...”

There was no sign that John was going to finish his sentence, so Dave came to his aid. Just as he had done it time and time again.

“Yup. Being a big shot business man is all fine and dandy until someone gets a hit put on them.”

“Is he... Where is he?”

”Who?”

”My dad.”

“John, you’re not getting what I’m saying here. I fucking saved you back―”

“Where is he?”

“John, I am trying to―”

“ _Where is he?_ ”

“21605 Fir Dr, Maple Valley, Washington.”

“Is he dead?” The way John’s face contorted just from saying those three words in one sentence made it clear how much it hurt him. Yet he was still not getting the point Dave was trying to make.

“John, that’s―”

“What did you do to him?”

“John―”

“What the fuck did you do?!”

It was one interruption too many. Anger flared on Dave’s face, and he looked so much like his brother in that moment. His hands felt the same, too. Long fingers wrapped around John’s throat, pushing him back against the window so hard it rattled in its hinges, and the glass vibrated from the impact. John gasped for air, hands moving on instinct and muscle memory as they reached for Dave’s slim wrists. He could easily fit his fingers around them. Even so, it helped not. He pulled and clawed and tugged, but Dave did not let go. Instead, the boy leaned in close, and John would have held his breath if it was not already cut short. He did not want to breathe the same air as Dave.

“I don’t like being interrupted, John. How many fucking times do I have to tell you this?” Both of Dave’s hands were fisted around John’s throat, and he pressed his thumbs into John’s windpipe. He could feel how the other struggled to breathe beneath the pressure, but John was quiet, and it was his turn to speak now. “You don’t listen to me. I am _telling you everything _,__  but you’re not listening. I’m trying to tell you that I fucking _saved you_  back then. It was literally my job to kill you, it was our job. Me and Bro’s. And god knows Bro hates leaving a job unfinished. But I saved you. I took you in and staged your death and I fed you. I put a roof above your head instead of a coffin six feet under. I helped you. I saved you. I continue saving you, and you just...”

John’s face was turning blue, the blood draining from his cheeks. His hands did not scratch quite as hard as before, and he was going lax in Dave’s grip. Tears were welling up in those pretty blues, and Dave could almost see his reflection in them. He let go then, watching John fall back against the window and clutching his own throat, coughing harshly. Dave’s thoughts were reeling. There were evident fingerprints on John’s throat, as well as inclinations left from his nails. He could not tear his eyes away from the sight, and he felt almost trigger happy― the kind of trigger happy where he wanted to shoot picture upon picture of John’s panicked face. It scared him. Not that he had hurt John, he had done so already on multiple occasions. He was scared because he wanted to hurt John _more_.   

Dave realized he was beginning to take on one too many of Bro’s advice. The assaulting hands were jerked away from John, Dave taking steps backwards. A new expression crossed his face once more, one of fright and honest antipathy, and it did not fit on his features. It looked abnormal and incompatible with the sharp edges of his face. John did not see it. His view consisted of the floor beneath them, grasping at his own throat and feeling every cough tearing through his windpipe. That sound was unpleasant and all the more reason for Dave to leave. He wanted to leave, he had to leave or he might do something he would regret later. What he needed was a moment’s space, quiet, and time to gather his fractured thoughts and ease the gallop of his heart. They were things that John could not give him at that moment.

“I’m leaving.” To see John give the slightest bit of attention to those words cut like a knife. Dave felt an itch in his hands, still warm from when they had fit snugly around John’s throat. “I’ll be back by tonight. So just... Fuck. I don’t care, you don’t fuckin’ listen anyway, so go ahead and keep staring out the window like some lost Rapunzel. I don’t give two shits, and― _Fuck _.__ ”

As if they had moved on a subconscious level, Dave’s hands had raised themselves again. Both he and John recognized the threat, and there was a crack as John’s head hit the back of the glass again, arms locking up around himself defensively. Dave had not taken a single step forward, he was taking steps backwards instead as John’s shoulders began to shake, the tremble soon taking hold of the whole of his body. There were plenty more words to be said between them, but John prioritized breathing, and Dave could not speak around the lump in his throat suddenly. The door slammed shut when Dave stormed out.

It wasn’t until a few hours after Dave had left that John felt like he could breathe again without disturbing the momentary peace. He assumed it was a few hours later, at least. There was no clock in the room, but the light outside had turned into a more faded, warmer color. John gazed out through the barred window, ignoring his father’s warnings of never looking directly at the sun. His head was filled with thoughts of his father, though. Dave had not answered his questions, not adequately. It was hard to tell what was worse. To have a concrete answer, or to be left with a nagging uncertainty, too many possibilities, and the risk of getting his hopes up. Dave and Bro were hit men. Their job had been to kill John― that did not sound right. John was insignificant, his father was the man of importance. The thought had John’s knees feel weak. He walked to the bed that he had refused to sit on hours before, and he met the mattress with a sigh. Pieces of the puzzle were fitting together, creating a clearer image of John’s situation, and he reminisced about his earlier ignorance. How sweet it had been. He did not want to think about what fate could have possibly befallen his father. He had opened the door to a room he did not want to step into, and he had the urge to turn and lock the door with a key― a key he did not have. Dave had the key. And he had left the door unlocked when he had left.

John’s mind backtracked. He remembered Dave’s raised voice, heavy footsteps, a door slamming shut, then more footsteps echoing down the corridor. There had been no ‘click’ of a lock in between. The door would be unlocked. John could walk right out into the open apartment. His body moved before he had made a decision for it to do so, and he walked to the very thing that separated him and the outside. The outside being the inside of this hell hole. To bring his hands to that door handle did not happen as automatically as getting off of the bed had. He recalled opening the door once, finding Bro on the other side.

The door knob almost burned, or at least John felt like it when he jumped back, clutching his own hand. He had been especially wary around Bro ever since _that_ happened; the man had choked him on his cock. The memory brought fourth a sour taste in his mouth.

John had been cooped up inside of Dave’s bedroom, not daring to set foot outside, and thereby he had no idea if Bro was around. Weighing his options proved a challenge. Between the two brothers, Bro seemed the most ruthless. The brother with the least inhibition and little to nothing to keep him from doing as he pleased. John’s face grimaced at the thought, telling himself that he was _not_ favoring one psycho over the other. But even though the idea of facing those triangular shades and pointed teeth again had him scared, there was an undeniable want in him to get out of those four walls encasing him.

The handle turned, and John stepped into an empty corridor. His every step was placed carefully, the naked soles of his feet snuffing out any sound beneath them, and his eyes were peeled for danger. He saw it everywhere. There was nothing safe about the wooden floors beneath his feet, nor the white walls of the corridor accessorized with a minimum amount of things, and every door looked ready to open up and swallow him up. John hurried past them, heading straight for the kitchen. Dave had left the door to the bedroom unlocked, but that did not mean he would also let the front door so. The open door had been intentional, he could not believe otherwise. He needed something to protect himself with, or something small enough to pick a lock. John rounded the corner with plenty of ideas coursing through his head, but the moment he had both feet inside the kitchen, he dropped them all and bolted right back in the direction he came from.

“Oh no you don’t―” came Bro’s voice behind him, a rumble that almost sent John flying forwards with the volume of it. He had made a mistake. A big one. He knew, and he had to get back into Dave’s bedroom, back into the bathroom and hope to keep the door closed to keep those hands out and away from him. But Bro had long arms and even longer legs.

Fingers wound themselves into the back of John’s shirt, and in the next moment he was reeling backwards, losing his balance and crashing to the floor. The air was knocked out of him upon impact, strangling the cry that had been supposed to leave his lips. A breath later, and John had his voice back.

“Stop! Don’t touch me, I―”

“You what? Out to repeat old mistakes?”

“I wasn’t doing anything!”

Bro’s brows knitted together. The triangular shades obscured John’s view of his eyes, but it was clear he was not amused. “You can come up with a better excuse than that, kid.”

The name he was called had a shiver run down his spine, and his feet began kicking the floor to get some space between him and the man. And Bro let him, simply watching him scramble back and eventually get his legs beneath him, standing up. It helped not evening out the intimidating difference in height, size, mass, everything. John felt as if hands had already closed around his throat, and Bro was doing nothing but looking at him. Those eyes of the man were pinning him to the spot, and he could not even see them. They were hiding behind dark lenses, but he could feel them all the same. John moved to take a step back, but just as he did, Bro spoke again.

“You’re not sleepin’ with Dave, are you?” A visible shudder went through John, and he received a chuckle from Bro. “I take that as a no.” John took a step back, Bro took a step forward. His long legs shortened the space that John was trying to put between them. “Why not?”

The question caught John by surprise, any form of response getting stuck in his throat as a cause. He remembered the lesson in gratitude Bro had taught him. He had received two lessons thus far. One that left his back in shreds, the second had given him an aching jaw. Nothing in him wanted to know what a third lesson would entail.

John flinched when Bro stepped closer, his boot hitting the floor hard enough to create a loud noise, snapping the boy out of his own head. He knew it was likely more cozy inside that thick skull, but he needed John in the present with him. That single step had eliminated almost the whole gap between them, only one foot left. They breathed the same air, though it looked as if John was not breathing at all. The kid’s chest had stopped moving, the steady heave of his ribs spared only for taking in the most necessary of breaths. When John swallowed, Bro could hear the saliva work its way around the lump in John’s throat.

“I-I-I... I’m not, no. I don’t want t―”

“We only got two beds,” Bro interrupted. “You gotta pick one.”

“What?”

“Dave’s bed...” Bro took a step closer, John took a step away. “... or mine.” Bro took another step, John’s back met the wall.

Air became short in the room. John needed not a wild imagination to make a guess at what Bro was speaking about, and he had all the material to create vivid pictures in his head. They frightened him. He wanted to close his eyes as if that would make it go away, but he dared not render himself blind in front of the man. Breathing in Bro’s presence was a risk on its own.         

“If you got a bed, ya gotta make use of it, right? ‘s only logical.”

“I’m not doing that. I’m not. You can’t―”

The corner of the man’s mouth twitched, and John reconsidered his words.

“I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to. I won’t do it. I...” It was John’s face contorting then, pulling a grimace as he tried to hold back everything welling up inside of him. “I just want to go home. This is... crazy. It’s fucking― fucking horrible. I won’t tell anyone, so just let me go. Let me go, and I’ll disappear, I promise. I won’t te―”

A rush of air blew right past John’s cheek. He flinched, not from the feeling, but from hearing the ear-cracking sound of Bro’s fist colliding with the wall behind him. It was with uncertainty that he noted a faint crackling sound as he dared not look at the fist next to his head. Instead, his eyes were staring straight at the looming figure above him, invading his space and sending his pulse into a gallop.

“Tell me, John, do you have trouble countin’?” Bro muttered. Despite the lack of volume, his voice cut the very air between them.

“Uuh... I... What?”

“ ‘cause it seems you’ve miscounted the amount of options I gave ya. You had two, not three. Dave’s bed, or mine. Not Dave’s bed, mine, or neither. See, there’s a big difference.”

“I’m not doing this. _That_. I’m not. I won’t.”

It was the last objection John got out in that moment. The fist on the wall moved, grabbing a handful of dark locks between its fingers, and John let out a cry as his head was yanked forward. He could not keep up with Bro’s long strides as he was dragged back down the corridor. His eyes could scarcely even keep up with the surroundings. It all passed in a blur, or his own arms would come up and block his view as he desperately tried to get Bro to relent in his grip. That hand remained steeled in John’s hair against all his efforts to make it release him. John did not see it when Bro kicked open the door to a room, but he heard the bang of it and felt himself being roughly thrown inside.

The room was dark, becoming almost pitch black when Bro closed the door after them. A switch was turned, and a dim light above their heads flicked on. John already felt sick.

“Stop, no. No, this is wrong. I don’t want to do this. Come on. Com-come on, just let me go!”

John was on the floor, but he did not stay there for long. He was already back on his feet when Bro approached. The man was all that he saw, the fact that they were in _Bro's_ room was all he could think about, and he wished he could feel more than fear.

“P-please, just let me go. I won’t tell, I swear. You’ll never see me again. Never hear from me or anything. You won’t― No, no, step back.”

Bro was coming closer. By instinct, John took steps backwards, hands raised and eyes wide, wanting to run forward and out that door of which he came, but a wall of a man was in the way. With a fearful heart, John saw as Bro reached a hand up, picking the sunglasses off of his nose and setting them aside on a desk he passed on his way. A pair of amber eyes stared at him from across the room. They were not as abnormal as Dave’s, but they were frightening. Dave was eerie because of his scarlet eyes, Bro’s eyes were eerie because of the man they belonged to.

“Look, Bro― It’s Bro, right? I-I’m not out to make my situation worse, so just step back. Dave has told me everything. I know what it’s about now, and I won’t tell. I won’t―”

“So the shrimp finally told ya. Good.”

“Y-yeah. I won’t tell anyo―”

“You’ve said that too many times already. I know. You won’t tell.” Bro was but a few inches away, and John could not go further back. He was almost bent over backwards on Bro’s bed, his knees having hit the edge. Bro continued talking. “You won’t get the chance to, either.”

With one push, John went down. He bounced on the mattress and had not even settled before his legs began to kick frantically, trying to hit everything within reach. Yet it was a momentary defense. Bro grasped both his ankles, hands easily fitting around them, and John was left with only his hands and the thrash of his upper body as his means of escape. Unfazed by every attempt, Bro talked with a steady voice. “But that was not the question at hand. Dave’s bed, or mine. I’ll give you somethin’ to compare the two with.”

Fight rose within John from having his legs pushed apart, his ankles caught in Bro’s iron grip. The man settled between his thighs, far too close, but just close enough for John to reach his arms up. His fingers caught on Bro’s shirt, scratching and pulling and shoving and doing everything hands could do, but it was not enough. He was punching against concrete. The grip on his ankles released, and Bro’s shackles of hands took hold of his wrists instead. John felt like the bones within would give beneath the pressure.

“Stop! Let me go! It hurts. Stop it! Don’t! I―” He was no match in strength, he knew. With every futile attempt at getting free that knowledge was further pounded into his skull, making his every inch shake with the effort to prove it wrong. In his mind, he knew that reason would be beyond the man’s hearing, but he could not _not try._

“Please! I’m― I’m sixteen, don’t do this! I’m just a kid! You can’t!” Those words would have tasted sour in any other situation, but just then it was a means of defense. Bro cared not. John’s arms were stretched above his head, both his wrists gathered in one of Bro’s hands, allowing the man one free to wander. It slid down John’s body, passing his collarbone and stomach and hip, reaching the hem of his pants, and it had clear intentions and no hesitation. A cold hand touched John’s bare skin beneath his shirt, and his voice reached a higher pitch.

“N-n-no! Don’t! I’m not g-gay, please, don’t do this. I don’t want this.” He was running low on things to say already. “Please, stop! I’ll― I’ll take Dave’s bed.” It came out in a rush, and Bro paused. He had a finger hooked inside of John’s pants, but he spared a glance at the boy. For a moment, John could trick himself into believing he had said what the other wanted to hear.

“You haven’t even had a toss in mine yet.” A row of teeth showed themselves as Bro flashed a grin. “Don’t knock it til you try it.”  

John’s thoughts collapsed in on themselves when Bro yanked his pants down with one swift move, taking his boxers with half the way. His words were watered down to a continuous mantra of _please_ and _don’t_ and _stop _,__ unable to think when Bro’s hand returned to get rid of his boxers, too. His skin had never looked that pale before. All the blood in his body had run cold, and tears were pricking at his eyes as his lower half was rendered naked. Bro reached down to drag his pants and boxers off all of the way, tossing them aside. John wished the man had kept his shades on.

Hungry eyes roamed his body, traveling up his thighs and hips, stomach and the flaccid cock between his legs. John drew his knees up high, but Bro did not allow it. Bro nudged himself closer, forcing John’s legs apart by the broad mass of his body, and John could feel _something_ press up against his backside. It made the already clear intentions behind the man’s actions all the clearer. The tears gathering in John’s eyes released, followed by a choked gasp as Bro moved his hips.

“Nononononononono, stop! Please, don’t! Get off of me! You piece of shi―”

Finishing a sentence was a luxury in that situation. The grip on John’s wrists suddenly let go, but he had no time to use his freedom before he was turned around, getting a face full of the sheets below. For a brief few seconds, he could not breathe. His face was pressed into the mattress, a heavy pressure on the back of his head from where Bro had put his hand. Another hand took hold of John’s hip, dragging him to stand up on his knees, ass in the air. And Bro right behind him. John used the oxygen he did not have to sob into the sheets. They smelled of sweat and deodorant at the same time, and the smell flooded his senses, and he wanted to puke. He felt the same urge when a hand stroked his ass. Fingers dug into the soft flesh as if to break the skin, and Bro’s nails left red lines behind them when they dragged down John’s cheek to his upper thigh. There, Bro’s hand spread John’s legs even further apart.

“Stop! Please, stop. I don’t want this. Don’t do it. Please, _please_ don’t!”

John was talking to a deaf man. Or one void of sympathy and mercy. In that moment it was all the same to him. He tried to reach behind himself, shoulders rolling to accommodate the action, but he was not as flexible as to actually reach Bro. All he managed was to weakly stretch a hand towards where Bro was touching. He could reach the hand on the back of his head, though. John gripped it tight, pulling and scratching the man’s wrist with all his might, fueled by adrenaline. It was a bad choice.

Bro did not use his words, but he got the message across by shoving John’s face into the mattress. He held the boy there for several seconds, to the point where John’s grip on his wrist released. The boy spasmed, body fighting as it was losing oxygen fast. He squirmed beneath Bro’s grip to no avail, losing strength with each attempt at getting free, making the following tries all the more futile. Only when the boy had just enough capability to shudder did Bro release him. The moment Bro did, John came back up for air; it was a moment’s lack of resistance, and his captor took the opportunity without hesitation.

Two fingers circled John’s head, coming to his mouth and jamming themselves between his lips. John’s first response was to object, but getting out any coherent sound became hard when those same fingers pushed forward, bumping against the insides of his cheeks. They tasted of dirt and salt. Biting down was not an option, despite his urge to do so, as the digits tickled his gag reflex. He instinctively opened his mouth further, tongue pushing and twisting to get the fingers out, but his attempts came short. Saliva pooled in the floor of his mouth, so much so that he gurgled, and what spit that did not coat Bro’s fingers ran down his chin. The man was not saying a thing as his fingers prodded the insides of John’s mouth. John knew what it was for, and he wanted to bite down. But he could not even swallow. Wet, desperate sounds spilled from his mouth as much as spittle did, and Bro’s fingers retreated, allowing oxygen passage to his lungs once more. Yet John had a feeling it was not an act of mercy.

A finger pressed up against John’s hole, and the air he had just breathed caught in his throat. “No! No, stop, pl-please! I don’t want to do this, pleasepleasepleasepleaseple― _Aaaah!_ ”

The protests died on his tongue. The pressure against his entrance doubled, and Bro slipped a single, slick finger inside. It was dry and tight despite the saliva, and it had new tears build up in John’s tear ducts, making them overflow. There was no way it would go in, despite Bro’s insistent pushing. A curse sounded behind him, and he felt like drowning himself in his tears. The pressure on his asshole left, but Bro’s presence came closer instead. One hand gripped his ass cheek, pulling it aside and exposing him to the whole world, and he felt a warm breath of air ghost across his skin. Then something wet. John shuddered in disgust, realizing that Bro had fucking spat on him, the saliva sliding down the cleft of his ass. All the while, pleas and swears rained from the tip of John’s tongue, all of them directed at the man behind him despite knowing he would go unheard. Bro had not listened to him before, there was no reason for Bro to listen to him now. Not when all Bro needed to do was grab him by the neck to render him helpless.

He should have never left Dave’s room. Should have never left the bathroom. It had been a stupid, reckless decision, but never before had he experienced wolves lying in wait just outside the door. Still, he should have known better. John cried, wanting for all in the world to leave that very moment. Bro’s finger was using the spittle to push in deeper, but it helped not on the incredible discomfort and shame washing over John. He was going to get raped. The fact resounded within the walls of his skull, making him shake in his spot on the bed. The frantic attempts at stopping Bro had ceased, his hands instead gripping on tight to the sheets, clawing at them and trying to pull himself forward, away from the pain pushing into him. But the hand on the back of his neck did not allow escape. He was stuck. Not even his thoughts would stray to somewhere else. Everything, his body and mind, it was grounded to the very present, and he had never hated it more.

Bro gave a whistle behind him. “Hoo, look at you. Cryin’ already? Sheesh, it’s just like when I had your pretty pink lips wrapped ‘round my cock.” The finger pushed in ever further, and John trembled around the intrusion. “You were bawlin’ your eyes out, begging _pretty please_ and makin’ a real show of it, too. All until I put somethin’ in that mouth o’ yours. Taught you to appreciate the quiet.”

“I-I didn’t say any-anything this time. Stop it. I haven’t―”

“Oh please, you think I didn’t hear you and Dave?”

“I didn’t― _Nngh!_ F-fuck, pull it out! Stop!”

Bro’s finger was in to the knuckle, long and thick, and John’s hips jerked forward to get away. “Don’t lie to me,” Bro growled in warning. “You did. Guilty as charged.” He emphasized his point by curling his finger, making the boy shudder as nails rubbed against his inner walls. “Cryin’ out for your daddy, being real mean to Dave and all kinds of disrespectful. The guy’s offering you his bed, but yer won’t even sleep in it. Typically, it ain’t my business, but...”

The hand on the back of John’s head moved to grip fistfuls of his hair. John cried out, having to prop himself up on his hands to not have chunks of hair pulled out of his scalp as Bro tugged his head backwards. The words that the man spoke next made him respond with nothing but a sob.

”If Dave ain’t gonna teach ya some manners, I will. Besides, I could use someone to warm my bed at night.”   

Bro began to move his finger more, dragging it out and pushing it in, igniting a burning sensation with each action. The spit was doing close to nothing to ease the passage, leaving only discomfort for John to experience. He grit his teeth together, both to cut off his own voice and to steel himself against the sharp pain from the hand still in his hair. It had his head raised high, neck bent awkwardly, and there was no way for him to block out the man’s voice in the position. Covering his ears would earn him something horrible in return, no doubt.

“The boy’s a bit too awkward to make a move. Not that he haven’t thought about it. You’ve seen the way he looks at you. Hell, I bet ya he’s thought about this exact scene more times than once,” Bro chuckled, dark and menacing. His finger was continually pushing in and out of John, feeling the boy clench around the digit and shake with each bodily attempt at making him stop. John reached his hands back, he clawed at the sheets, tried to crawl forward, he quivered and cried. Bro could hardly wait to see the kind of expression that would take hold of those soft features once he sunk his cock into the other. Surely, it would be picture worthy. But anything entailing John seemed to be worth shooting in Dave’s opinion. Not that Bro could really blame his brother. The boy was nothing but rounded edges, soft to the touch even when his body tensed with fear. Moreover, John was something they rarely ever dealt with; innocent and still breathing. It was a scarce luxury to have something as delicate beneath his bigger frame, and Bro hummed in approval as the boy curled in on himself when a second finger pressed against his pucker.

“I can see why he’d think of such things with you as the main star,” Bro continued by saying. “You look good like this, takin’ my fingers.” The second digit was squeezing in alongside the other, sending a shudder through John, cut off with a whimper. Actually fitting it inside was harder. John was tight, closing around the long digits inside of him. Bro’s skin was rough and calloused, feeling like sandpaper on his inner walls. The man’s voice was even worse. “You’ll look even better wrapped ‘round my cock.”

“S-stop. Stop it, don’t do this.” John was back to begging, though he had never quite stopped. That voice had grown strained with the amount of pleas that left his throat, continuing throughout it all and only making note of themselves when sparks of pain ignited real fire. “Take it out, stop it. It’s― _You’re disgusting!_ Stop! I don’t―”

His voice broke off with a groan. Bro had removed his fingers and having them out was a stark moment’s relief in comparison, even as John struggled to regain his breathing. Every part of him was rigid, and he felt like he was nailed to the bed, unable to move just yet. There was a sound of rustling fabric behind him, but he barely even registered it with how loud his own heart was beating in his ears. His pulse was running away with him and for once his mind strayed from the present, zoning in on the ache in his scalp. Bro was still gripping on to his hair tightly. Until he did not, and John fell forward on the bed without the man holding his head up. The mattress felt as hard as ever when he hit it, but it was a welcome feeling all the same. It could not last, though. He had to get away.

John nudged his arms beneath his own chest, pushing to get back up, but just then a pressure returned to his behind. The tension in him erupted all at once. “No. Nonononono, stop! Don’t! Get the fuck off of me, you freak! Let me go! Let― Mmmpf!” Freedom of speech was forcefully taken from him once more, having his face shoved into the mattress.

“Shut up, kid,” a deep voice growled above him. “Think you could just keep in Dave’s room all day, twiddling your thumbs? Gotta earn your keep.”

The weight on the bed shifted when Bro leaned forward, his chest almost touching and lined up with John’s back, and his cock pressed firmly between John’s ass cheeks. The man gave a grind of his hips, punctuating his arousal. “You’ve been a great nuisance to me ever since you got ‘ere. Screamin’, complaining, acting like yer entitled to some kind of a special treatment just ‘cause your daddy’s rich. Just ‘cause Dave thinks you’re easy on the eyes.” Another grind, the head of Bro’s cock catching on the rim of John’s hole, making the boy gasp and shudder and beg ever louder. It was not loud enough to drown out Bro’s voice, though. “I’ll treat you to my cock instead, how’d you like that, hmm?”

“N-no, I won’t. You’re fucking sick. Get off of me. Get off, I― N-n-no! Stop! Don’t p-push―” John’s words reached a higher pitch when two hands put themselves on his ass, fingers caressing the skin before pressing his cheeks apart. The deep chuckle he heard from behind him was all he needed to know that Bro was enjoying the sight of him spread open, and he could feel those demonic eyes scorch his naked skin again. Then he felt an actual burn as Bro angled his cock to be level with his entrance, pushing in slowly. The fight in him ignited anew.

John thrashed his limbs, flailing on the bed and trying to kick, claw, and punch, but all he gained was a hand on his neck. It squeezed, easily reaching around his throat and threatening to grip hard enough to leave a bruise. John cared not. He tossed his body forward as best he could, realizing it was not much. He choked, making a gurgling noise as tears and saliva mixed together. It was all too much. Fear was gripping him tighter than ever, and he found himself wishing Dave was back― Dave, his abductor and stalker, a boy his age that had beaten and bruised him and made his skin crawl. John abandoned the thought.

“Stop!” he cried out. “Please, don’t! I don’t― I’ve never―”

“Oh? You’re a virgin?” The grin that Bro said it with had John shudder in disgust.

“P-please, just... D-d-don’t do it. I’ll... I’ll suck you off if you―”

The room resounded with a roaring laughter, and John flinched at the volume of it. “Shit, you just don’t stop tryin’, huh? Negotiating won’t do you no good, kid. Not when you got no cards to play.”

“Come on, I’ll do it. Just not thi― F-fuck, wait―!”

Bro gave a single jerk of his hips, and that bulbous head of his cock slipped past the rim of John’s entrance. The first of those silver studs decorating the man's shaft fit inside. The boy almost bit down on his own tongue as he simultaneously wanted to scream and grind his teeth together. There was nothing between them, and he could feel the heat of Bro’s member pressed right up against him, slipping inside of him. As Bro pushed in, tears pushed out of John’s eyes. The wit he used to keep himself afloat and from completely breaking down was wearing thin, and he was drowning quicker than ever. Water was filling his lungs, and he could not breathe, airways squeezed tight, and his body trembled in protest to the intrusion seizing him from behind.

It hurt. It hurt so bad. The pain was blinding, and Bro was not going slow. He was pushing in without break or pause, each inch measured by a silver bead, prying the boy beneath him open with brute force. John’s mouth hung open in a silent scream. Bro groaned above him, deep and guttural, and he wished he had not been blessed with hearing. A pair of big hands locked onto his hips in a mean grip. Nails raked against his skin once Bro began to move, halfway in, and pushed himself back and forth to rock into John. Each thrust of the man had John slipping slightly on the sheets, and it had the burning pain settle deeper inside of him. It urged him to use his voice, and he cried out.

“S-stop! Don’t, please don’t! It― It hu-hurts..! P-please, pull it out. Stop this. It hu―”

“Yeah, that’s it. Keep goin’, scream for me.”

“Sto― _Aaah!_ ” Skin slapped against skin, and John lost all means of coherent speech. Bro was buried in him to the hilt, the man’s hips a motionless wall against his backside. The stretch was horrible. It stung, burned, and hurt like salt in a wound, gasoline on skin and ignited with a match. John’s knuckles turned white from gripping on to the covers beneath him, and his jaw ached from how hard he was grinding his teeth together. For once, Bro was not moving. He was still behind the boy, hands holding on tight to the soft hips for leverage, keeping John in place. There was no escape, he was caught and trapped and _he should have stayed in Dave’s room._

Shoulders began to shake, sending a ripple effect through the boy’s body. John whimpered into the sheets, wet sounds that echoed off the walls, mixing in with the growls from Bro. It was repulsive. And then it was nothing but seething pain. A piercing cry tore itself through John’s throat, so loud that for a moment it drowned out all else; the sound of slapping skin as Bro began to move at a brutish pace, the grunts elicited from the man, and the groaning bed springs. With each thrust, Bro dragged John back by the hips to make them meet, plunging into the crying mess of a boy with a force he had never experienced. The pain was new. It was frightening, and it had his heart beat at speeds that felt like he might just faint at any given moment. And he wished he would. It was pure agony, rammed so deep inside of him in places he had never touched. The man’s cock was throbbing, he could feel all of it. Every bump of a vein rubbing against his inner walls, the piercings lining the shaft, he felt the girth of it prying him open, and the slickness of spittle, pre-cum, and something else he dared not think about. But that something was trailing down the inside of his thigh, and he knew. It was red and hot, it was blood, and he was hurt. John cried, a pitiful sound that was choked and strained as his throat was beginning to give up on trying.

Bruises were forming on John’s hips, blossoming beneath Bro’s fingertips, and that pert ass was turning red from the slap of Bro’s hips against it. All over, John’s skin was turning in color. Either losing its warm tone, or littered with unnatural hues in places where blood came too close to the surface, or where hands left marks. The boy was changing, the boy _had been changed_. Bro was the one molding him, turning him into what was needed in order for him to fit into their lives― he was doing what Dave could not do himself.

John did not stop screaming, not for a second. Not even when his throat gave out and the sound became nothing but a hoarse whisper did he stop. He ran out of tears, his cheeks damp and his eyes a puffy red and blown wide.

Despite the sounds he made, despite sounding like he was coughing up a lung, Bro did not stop. The man moved with ferocity, building up a mean rhythm that had his cock ram deep into John beneath him, shaking the boy at his very core. The tear that was bleeding added some lubricant, but even so there was no remedy for the pain coursing through John, and it had no impact on the pleasure Bro was experiencing either. To have someone ― _something _―__ hot and tight wrapped around his dick drew noises out of him that had not escaped his lips in a while. A familiar feeling was coiling inside his gut, and he knew exactly what it meant. He reached a hand up to close it around the back of John’s neck, leaning forward until their bodies were pressed flush together, the boy squished between the mattress and a hard chest. His voice came out rough, words laced with something sinister.

“This is your first time, yeah? How’s it feel?” Bro thrust his hips forward, his cock ramming into John and sending him sprawling across the sheets, trying so desperately to hold on and withstand the abuse. Neither of which he could fight. “How’s it like to bounce on my cock like this, hmm? You’re so fuckin’ _tight _.__ ” John whimpered, and he shook his head at Bro’s words. “Your ass fits perfectly ‘round me. Just lookit you, takin’ my dick like a proper lil’ whore.” Bro’s fingers curled around to the front of John’s throat, putting pressure there and cutting short the messy cries leaving the boy. “Only sound I wanna hear comin’ from those cock suckin’ lips o’ yours is this. Crying out and moaning like a bitch.”

Bro let go of John’s neck, leaving John to fall forward against the mattress and hide away his tear stained face. That ass of his was still high in the air, held up by Bro’s cock and those bruising hands, ripe for the taking, and Bro was taking it all. Nails dragged across John’s earthy skin before both of Bro’s hands gripped on to his hips once more, pulling him down on the man’s cock time and time again, going faster still, harder. John quivered, taking each brute thrust with a pained moan. It was too much. It was beyond what he could take, but then finally there was some release― not his own, but Bro’s.

A wrecked sob left John as Bro slammed in deep, stilling all movements, and he could feel the whole of the man’s length twitch. It was a warning, and next Bro was spilling inside of him. John shuddered, repulsion washing over him at the same time as hot seed coated his insides. Bile rose high in his throat, so high he could taste it, but he had not enough food in his stomach for anything to come out. Only spit dribbled from his lips, forgetting to swallow as his mouth hung open in disbelief. Bro spoke above him, and his voice sounded far away.  

“Fuuuuck, that’s it, boy.” He chuckled. “Maybe you oughta start visitin’ my room more often.”

John writhed in his spot when Bro began to move again. It had the thick substance inside of him squelch, further implementing the disgust in him to a point where no soap and water would be able to rinse him clean. And he cried. He cried, and it hurt his throat to make the smallest sound, each sob a knife cutting through him, but he cried all the same. Bro’s movements were languid, no longerdoing it for the physical pleasure and instead a sadistic satisfaction. John was broken, fighting just to breathe and managing but a ragged heave of air every two seconds. It sent a violent shudder through him when Bro pulled back― it came out with a wet ‘pop’, and John fell limply down on the bed, nothing left to hold up his body.

The strength in him was drained. He felt like an empty shell. Bro’s hands had yet to leave him, though. One of them dragged its fingers down the cleft of his ass, brushing a calloused thumb against his pucker.

“N-no, stop. Plea-... please stop _ _.__ I c-can’t...” John whimpered. His own fingers gripped the bed sheets, trying to drag himself forward and away from the other’s touch, but it became apparent to him just how weak Bro had left him. He could manage no more than another shudder.

“Now, don’t be like that.” The man’s voice was a purr, but breathless. It made John’s stomach coil in disgust. “I taught you a lesson, kid. Proved a point, so to speak. Maybe yer gonna stop bein’ an indecisive brat and appreciate what’s given to you.” Bro leaned down, his breath coming out hot against John’s ear. “Lying on a bed feels _so much better_ than the bathroom floor, doesn’t it?”


	6. Nothing You Wouldn't Have Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Rape aftermath 
> 
> FINALLY OMFG IM SO SORRY FOR THE TERRIBLY LONG WAIT!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> i finally got my shit together and wrote down the sixth chapter, hells yeah. i'm sorry for taking so long, i've been super busy and my motivation kinda dropped,,,, plus i'm working on some other stories on the side that i kinda wanna get to posting soon, too! but yeah. i've just been busy and kinda low lmao but i'm back at it!! hopefully i'll be able to get out more frequent updates now!!!! 
> 
> thank you to everyone who has stuck around, who has read this and left a comment/kudos or just liked the story so far in general. you have no idea how good of a feeling it gives me<333 :'D
> 
> anyways! i got something planned for chapter seven that's gonna be more exciting; this one chapter here is more to just get some development in there, show the changes happening with John and whatnot. there'll be more action, gross and gory shit soon :3c  
> also the fucking coding of this shit kills me jfc,,,, i hope i got it right,,,,,,

The water was scolding hot around him, turning his lightly dark skin a pinker undertone from having been submerged in it for too long. John’s fingers had turned wrinkly, and they felt numb, but at least they were no longer shaking. He had been staring at them for far too long now, delaying what it was he had come to do. The water was not simply to clean himself. He had scrubbed and clawed and scrubbed some more, but the ghost of rough palms on his skin would not leave. When he had ducked his head underwater, he could still hear the man’s voice ring in his ears. What was worse, though, was that he knew that same man was just on the other side of this room, separated by only a few thin layered walls.

There was a word for what had happened. John knew, but he could not bring himself to say it, or even think it. The wound was still fresh and open, and he did not trust the stability of his own two legs yet. Walking out of that horrid room had been a challenge he would rather have never faced. His knees had buckled, but the dark chuckle he had heard at just the inclination that he was about to fall had been enough to keep him upright. At least until he had made it into the hallway, the door to Bro’s room closed behind him. He made it all of three steps after that, before all the steps combined became too much. His knees took for the fall, and he knew that Bro could hear the heavy thump of his body on the floor. But the man did not come out. John was thankful of that.

After many a heavy breath, he had managed to get back up, force himself to Dave’s room, to the bathroom, only to fall once more. That time, he broke down as well. John had wailed, choked sobs ripping through his already sore throat and tearing it open. He had felt the wetness between his thighs. Each step had the flesh rubbing against each other, aggravating the burn and making the dread in him sink deeper. His body had moved on its own accord then. He had turned on the water to the absolute highest degree, filling the tub with something that was close to boiling. The burn of the water was more welcome than the burn between his legs.

John stayed like that, soaking in the water, until he almost dozed off at one point, only woken by the liquid suddenly filling his mouth and nostrils. Water splashed everywhere as he struggled to regain his sitting in the tub. His hands clutched the sides, and his feet kicked on the smooth porcelain until he came above water again. The heart in his chest was pounding at increasing speeds, slowing down once it realized he was no longer at risk of drowning. The fright of it was enough to get him to pull the plug in the tub and step out, grabbing the towel to dry himself off. But he still could not stand upright. John’s legs shook beneath him, and he had to sit down on the cold tiles as to not fall completely. He felt there was no strength left in him. Not in his legs, his arms, his anything. Dressing himself took longer than it was supposed to. At least he had picked out a new set of clothes, ones that did not reek of sweat and sex―

A shudder ran through him, making his hands shake as he tried to button his pants. It was too soon. Too soon to think about it, to put reason and cause to the ache in his lower body and the slickness he could _still_ feel between his thighs. He had tried to get _it_ out. But his own fingers were not long enough, they could not reach deep enough inside, and it had hurt too much for him to try for more than a minute. Instead, he had cried until his eyes had run dry. As he sat on the floor, his shoulders shook as he began to cry once more. Goosebumps traveled up his arms, the air around him feeling cold compared to the hot water, and he hugged his own knees to try and retain some of the warmth. He hid himself inside a cocoon of his own limbs, eyes squeezed shut.

It was dark outside once John made his way out of the bathroom. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame to support his unsteady legs. All of his attention was laid solely on the bed in the clinically empty room. The sheets were folded as always. Neat and tidy, not a wrinkle in sight. John’s eyes flickered to the entry door of the room, waiting with a baited breath as if it could open at any moment. Instead of wishing that it did not, he wished that it would be Dave walking through it. That thought grew weary with every step he took towards the bed. When he finally sat down on the mattress, he wanted to cry again. When he tugged himself beneath the covers, laying on his side and facing the wall, he did cry.

The tears had stopped coming by the time the door opened, casting a ray of light into the room. John dared not move, but he recognized those footsteps. They were not comforting, but they were a relief.

“Hey...” It was Dave’s voice, softer than ever, speaking above him. “You’re in bed.”

John made no attempt at replying. He barely moved at all, only sign that he was alive being the short rise and all of his chest. A moment passed. Though his back was facing the other boy, John knew Dave’s eyes were glued on him. It was another wave of relief when Dave moved, disappearing into the bathroom for a few minutes before coming back into the room. All the lights were turned off, and John almost had the urge to look up then, just to see whether Dave’s eyes shone in the dark. But he refrained. He kept still when he felt the bed dip under Dave’s weight as he crawled on top of it, yet a shiver was unavoidable when the covers were pulled up, Dave joining beneath them.

The bed was small. Dave’s shoulder was touching John’s back, and John wanted to get off of the bed right then and there. That one simple touch had him curl in on himself, breathing harder than before. Dave shifted in his spot, and John knew he was going to say something. John did not want to talk, he did not feel like he could, and he regretted his every decision that day. But Dave was talking either way.

“You’re in bed...” he began by saying, repeating the same words and sounding just as baffled by it. Then he took in a deep breath, preparing for more words to come. “I mean, not that I mind, don’t get me wrong. Hell, I’ve been wanting this ever since you first got here, but I had the impression you didn’t exactly want to share a bed with your...” The word was bitter on Dave’s tongue, so he avoided it altogether. “I’m just surprised, is all.”

There was no response from John apart from his ragged breathing. Dave made note of that, and also how John had yet to actually interrupt him. It made him want continue talking. “It’s better than the bathroom floor, right?” He turned his head to look at the boy next to him. “Not exactly memory foam material or a seventh cloud or anything, but it’s something, right? And I know it ain’t too big, but it’s enough for two people, right? We can fit.”

Another pause, another quiet stretch wherein John’s strained breathing could be heard.

“It’s not so bad, right?” Dave shifted to lie on his side, facing John’s back. Shivers were traveling up the boy’s spine, making the black hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and Dave felt an itch in his fingers. “I was worried, y’know? About you sleeping in the bathroom all the time. It’s bad for your back and all, and we don’t want you straining no shit, unless you want to see me in a nurse’s outfit and tending to your wounds.” It had been supposed to earn him a chuckle, but he got nothing but John pulling his shoulders further up towards his ears. There was tension in every muscle, Dave could see that, even as the shirt John wore obscured his view. He had to keep talking. If he stopped talking that tension would spread like cancer. 

“But like... I get it. I get why you wouldn’t want to sleep in the bed for those few first nights.” First few weeks. “But you gotta stop acting like that. It won’t get you anywhere. That’s just how it is. I can’t change it, not now. I know this isn’t... isn’t what you _wanted,_ but it’s what you _needed._ ”

A visible shudder went through John, accompanied by a sharp intake of air. Dave scooted closer, eliciting another shudder. His legs brushed up against John’s, and he felt fabric against them, causing him to frown as his eyes went down.

“Are you still wearing pants? Won’t you get hot?”

John made no attempt at answering, and instead he scooted as close to the edge of the bed as possible. As far away from Dave as possible. A pang of offense crossed Dave, but he suppressed it in favor of following every inch John put between them. The weather was humid, the dark of the night still lukewarm, and two bodies beneath the sheets would make everything the hotter. Wearing the absolute minimum amount of clothing was the smart thing to do. Rationality told Dave that, and he meant to help John. It was all he ever did. But just as his hand brushed the other boy’s hip and the waistband of his pants, John went into a rigid state, finally talking;

“Don’t touch me.” It was strained and raw and hoarse, and Dave wondered why only briefly. John was moving all the more forward, but there was no more space for him to move on. Another inch and he would fall off of the bed. Instinctively, Dave grabbed onto John’s hip, drawing him backwards. John’s rigidity turned into a flailing of limbs. He kicked his legs and waved his arms, struggling to get away, but Dave was pulling him back. A weight settled on top of him as Dave used the advantage of size against him, and though Dave was more bone than meat, he was more than John altogether.  

“Stop! Don’t tou― _Don’t touch me!_ ”

“John.” Dave’s hand remained on the other’s hips. “You’re gonna fall off the damn thing, come on. Quit acti― Hey! Watch it.”

A hand had come dangerously close to slapping Dave in the face, and he wanted to say it had been an accident. But John’s eyes were right on him, staring into the scarlet of his irises. Time stopped just as Dave drew in a breath, and he saw every detail in front of him; the white of John’s eyes, the red, irritated skin around them, the quiver of his lips, the flare of his nostrils, the dredging of his throat where the air had gotten stuck. It was fear Dave saw.

“Get off,” John croaked out to Dave on top of him. The pressure was impending, about to become a crushing weight at any moment, and _it felt too alike last time._ He felt like crying again, and his eyes began to sting with oncoming tears. It was but hours ago. The pain had not yet settled, his mind was not yet pieced back together, and his body was an open wound. Dave was salt.

Panic rose in John, and he could not breathe no longer. The air rushed into his mouth with quick, shallow breaths, not reaching his lungs before it was being pushed out again. Dave was on top of him and everything felt wrong. His body ached, and; “I want to sleep in the bathroom.”

It came out fast, the words shaking so much that they were almost incoherent. Dave’s brows came together on his forehead, but his eyes did not narrow at all. They were wide and open as before, looking down at John incredulously. He need not speak, John could already tell was the answer was going to be.

“I d-don’t want to sleep here. Get off. I changed my mind. I don’t want to sleep in here.”

”Why did you choose to come to bed?”

The question caught John off guard, and all of his defenses went up. “Get off.”

“You wouldn’t even let me touch you before I left, but now you’re in our bed.” John wanted to hurl. _Our bed._ Dave continued talking. “What changed? What happened? Did you―”

“I wouldn’t let you touch me because you choked me!”

”I did that because you weren’t listening, even though I was spitting truths and answering all of _your_ damn questions. Why won’t you answer a single one of _mine?_ ”

“Can’t you just get off of me? What is so fucking hard about― Just let me go!”

“Not until you calm do―”

” _No!_ Let me go! You can’t fucking do this! You can’t just _take_ someone and expect them to be okay with that!”

“John, I saved you, it’s either this or being―”

“ _You’re insane!_ ”

The corner of Dave’s lip twitched, a rhetorical shadow covering his face, though John saw it clearly. The downcast of those scarlet eyes, deepening and turning a maroon color, how the boy’s sharp features were sharpened into points and edges, the incisors John could see when Dave pulled back his lips in a sneer. Dave looked supernatural through frightened eyes. It sent a chill through John, but his shudder was rendered an inner tremble as Dave all but crushed him beneath his weight. John’s body reacted before his mind did. He kicked and flailed his arms around once more, feeling he was running out of air because of being so close. Fingers closed around his wrists, holding them down onto the mattress, and John openly gasped for air as Dave seemed to push it all out of him, their chests pressed together. Even through the layers of clothing, John could feel the sharp shapes of Dave’s ribs. Everything was far too close. John swallowed down a large breath, but before he could scream out, the sweaty palm of Dave’s hand blocked the sound.

“Quiet.” There was no patience left in Dave’s voice, only an edge that spoke of his frustrations. “Just― shut up. For one moment, shut up and let me speak. You don’t fucking _listen_.” Ragged nails dug into John’s cheeks, harder with each word passing Dave’s snarling lips. Inside those burning orbs of his eyes, thoughts were spiraling, trying to make ends meet but the two points were too far apart to make a connection just yet. “You need to calm down,” Dave tried by saying. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

The nerves in John tensed up at the words, finding them bitter and ironic in spite of his panicked state of mind. He could not gather his thoughts and wits about him. The hand on his face was making it hard to breathe, and he took in hard intakes of air through his nose instead, nostrils flaring as he willed himself to meet Dave’s eyes. They burned him. John stopped his thrashing around, but he did not stop moving; his chest heaved up and down in erratic bursts, his veins were throbbing with the adrenaline pumping through him, and the drumming of his heart was making his whole body shake. It was enough for Dave to relent in his grip. He placed his hands on either side of John’s head instead, towering above him, an impending weight. John struggled with breathing just as much as he had done with Dave’s hand covering his mouth.

A silence stretched between them, filled out only by heavy panting and the city life outside of the barred window. Sniffling took to taking up space in the quiet, too. John’s eyes were watering, shining in the dark of the room, and his lips quivered in his attempts at holding back. The fire in Dave’s eyes softened, turning to embers.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Dave said again. “As nice as this is, I know you too well―” Another shudder went through John. “―to not question the sudden change in behavior, y’know? That’d be straight up ignorant. Is it about... what we talked about? Before I left?”

“Could we not talk about it?” John’s voice was weak, shaking as much as his lips.

“You’re cryin’. There’s something that needs talking about.”

With his hands free, John reached them up almost hurriedly to wipe away the tears from his eyes, pressing the heel of his hands to his face to clear his view. For once, it helped. “No. No, it doesn’t. I don’t want to talk about shit with someone who’s― I just don’t,” he choke out. “I just want to sleep.”

“John...”

Dave touched John’s cheek, but the softness of it was lost as John abruptly shoved him off. He fell back on the bed, managing to not hit it flat by taking for the fall with his arms. His patience was cut short several inches already, and John’s resistance was chipping away at it still. The muscles in him tensed, ready to shoot up and grab the other if he tried to bolt. But John only moved to shy away beneath the covers once more. Dave said nothing, the air growing heavy with silence again. Tipping himself over, he laid down next to John and stared at the ceiling. The heat of the moment was leaving him, but the words still unsaid clogged up his throat. He needed to get them out.

“Listen...” John did not even stir at Dave’s words. “I’ve said this times before, and I don’t particularly like repeating like a broken record, but you seem to forget it time and time again. This― All of this is to _protect you._ Don’t you get that? People out there want you dead, as in six feet under kinda dead. Or, well, that ain’t entirely true. I mean, people _think_ you’re dead. I saw your funeral.”

John bristled beneath the covers, the fabric realigning in a different position as he shifted. Dave’s words were unnecessary, but he dared not speak up, though the idea of his own funeral had a nestling discomfort surface in him. He wondered if he had been buried next to his father.

The pillow beneath his head was growing damp quickly with the tears sliding down his cheeks, and he did not trust his own voice to mutter a single sound without breaking. Gravity felt ten times more heavy, his body aching and throbbing in places it should not, and his eyes were burning with a mean sting. It was all too much; the pain, Dave, the things being told. It was all _too much_ to fit inside the small confines of his chest. There was barely even room for his heart with how hard it was beating, testing the durability of his rib cage.

“It was real beautiful, y’know?” Dave continued by saying. “People were lining the halls, taking up all the ―excuse my wording ― damn space in the church. Flowers everywhere, people had to watch their feet to not trip over them. They put your ashes―”

“My ashes?” John injected weakly.

“We burned your house.”

“Oh...”

“And a body inside of it. Almost like you. Same sex, height, age, weight. You have no idea how hard it was to find, I mean, we don’t exactly got bodies at our every disposal and especially not with such short notice, so we had to go and pull some strings. And then them fucks of a police department didn’t even bother to check, chalking it all up to being an acci―”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Alright...” A bit of disappointment came across Dave’s face. “But they put what they thought to be your ashes inside this lil’ urn. I couldn’t get a good look, granny was fuckin’ latched onto the thing like Rose to the board in the Titanic, making no room for lil’ ol’ Jack here.” There was a pause, as if Dave waited for a reaction to his movie reference. He knew how much John loved to make them himself, but as all his efforts seemed to be going, it went unappreciated.

“So many nice things were said, you know? Your grandmother held a speech.” The weight on the bed shifted as Dave scooted closer, rolling onto his side and lifting the covers a bit. John could feel the warmth of Dave’s hand just an inch away from his back. “It was beautiful. Almost made me shed a tear, who would’ve thought? Although... I wanted to correct her. She was wrong. She said you liked cakes so much, you never said no when she offered you a cookie, but we both know that ain’t true. You don’t like overtly sweet things, do you? I know you don’t. You prefer the sour candies above the gummy bears, which, admittedly, is where our paths don’t exactly follow the same trail. I mean, I’m down for eating sugar straight outta the bag if given the chance, y’know?” 

Dave’s hand inched closer and spread its long, bony fingers across the back of John’s shirt. A shudder went through John, but he stayed put, holding his breath to keep from making even the smallest movement.

“Sounded to me like she didn’t know you too well at all. I’ve seen the way you roll your eyes when she says how nice of a boy you are, never making a ruckus when you’ve really been sent to the principal’s office more than you can count on your own two hands. It’s the same look you give when your dad asks if you’ve taken out the trash and you lie, sneaking it out behind his back later.”

The tears kept rolling down John’s cheeks, and snot began running from his nose. He had to suppress another shudder as fingers brushed up and down his back, following the curve of his spine from neck all the way down to his tailbone. It had him forget about trying not to move. He shied away from the touch, his body aching beneath the slightest pressure of Dave’s hand, even though they were that much smaller and lighter than Bro’s. It happened only hours ago, his skin was still made of shattered porcelain. A sniffle escaped him, and it was just loud enough to stop Dave’s mouth from running again.

“John..?”

“I just want to sleep,” he whispered, voice muffled against his own hands as he brought them up to wipe away the wetness of his eyes. “Stop talking.”

A shiver rippled through him when Dave’s fingers brushed against the hairs on the back of his neck, the touch so delicate it was barely there. It did not fit, something so gentle did not fit into the tale of horror John was living, and he wanted it to stop. The care behind the action was not care at all, but something twisted, broken, and rearranged into the shape of it, trying to seem true but missing parts. John hunched his shoulders forward, back curving in on itself to create a shield of a body. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he bit down hard on his bottom lip to stop its constant quivering, and to block any sound from leaving his throat. One sniffle had brought back the concern in Dave’s voice. John knew it was better than the fury, but it was worse than the one-sided conversations; they were far too intimate, and they got beneath his skin like maggots in a corpse, eating all until there were only bones left. Dave picked him apart, dissected him with his words.

“Stop talking...” John muttered from within the enclosure of his own limbs. He had the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes, and his shoulders were raised high above his ears, his knees were drawn up to his chest, and even his toes curled in on themselves. Dave could only touch the outside, and so he did. That skeletal hand slid down from John’s neck and further down his arms, hesitating before skipping a step and placing itself on John’s hip. The way Dave’s fingers brushed against the waist of John’s pants was enough to have John almost roll off of the bed, if only to get away from the touch.

But he had to pick a bed to sleep in. A deep, rumbling voice resounded within his head, his skull throbbing with each repetitive word, and his body ached alongside it. Between the two beds in the apartment, he knew which one he would pick. It was the lesser of two evils, he told himself. It did not change the fact that he felt a disgusting relief for being in Dave’s bed rather than Bro’s. The relief alone rooted him to the spot, making it so he did not move while unfamiliar hands kneaded gently into the pudge around his hips. The only thing he could not handle was Dave’s voice.

“...Don’t you want to take off―”

“No. No― Just.” John paused, catching his breath. “Just let me have this. Please.”

For once, Dave seemed to understand the term of boundaries, and he did not push the subject of getting John out of his pants to make sure he did not get too hot and sweaty during the night. He settled for having his hand on John’s hip, thumb rubbing into the soft flesh beneath the fabric of John’s pants. That same hand slid further into the center of John’s lower back, sliding up the line of John’s spine but keeping his hands outside of the shirt the boy wore. The hand kept wandering, finding its way around John’s middle. Dave did not pull, but he scooted forward himself to the point where his chest was right up against John’s back, John’s backside nestled just above Dave’s thighs. John laid there perfectly, each inch of him measured to fit against Dave’s body.

Dave remembered how his hands had locked around John’s throat. It felt almost the same to close his arms around the boy’s waist― his heart seemed to fit better within his chest, beating harmoniously, and he liked to imagine their hearts were drumming in tune. But John’s was still going just a few beats too fast. Dave could let John have this, a moment’s peace. He could give that to John.

Morning came and passed, the clock ticking until it struck midday. It was the first time John stirred in his sleep, regretting it the moment he moved to shift and get comfortable again. A sharp pain exploded from within his lower back, running up his spine and rippling through him, pushing a groan past his lips. Laying on his side had been a bad idea. Waking up was even an even worse idea, and it did not even leave him with the choice of going back to sleep. The sheets fell down from around his shoulders as he pushed his arms beneath himself, raising up on his elbows, clearing one hurdle of getting up, but the rest of his body was reluctant to follow. It hurt still, a lingering sting.

Deep breaths went through John, finding the courage to force the lower half of his body into moving. He found the will to do it, and he grit his teeth together in anticipation of pain, but it was wasted. Something long and heavy was draped across his waist, keeping him on the bed. Glancing down, he saw pale skin with subtle freckles dusted all over it, and a few nicks of scars that looked strikingly white. It was Dave’s arm. John’s eyes followed the limb to the body it was attached, and red met blue as their eyes crossed each other.

“G’morning,” Dave said in a groggy voice.

John made no reply, simply letting his gaze fall back on Dave’s arm. Dave made no move to take it off, so John looked back up and down again. The hint finally came across. With a sound only describable as disappointed, Dave untangled himself from John, and the boy finally got to use the courage he had taken the time to muster, pushing up and off the bed. Immediately, it was a wave of discomfort in John. He willed himself through it, throwing both feet over the edge of the bed and standing up on jello legs that threatened to give way beneath him. He only had enough strength stored to make it to the bathroom, barely getting the door closed behind him as he all but collapsed onto the closed toilet seat. The air in his throat got thick suddenly, catching and making it hard to breathe.

It was unexpected, hitting like a snow storm with a chill reaching to his bone marrow, but in the privacy of his own space, realization hit him. And hard. Though he had left his glasses by the bed, he could see the blurred image of his legs shaking. The very same legs that had carried him from Bro’s room to Dave’s, a sickening slickness running down the inside of his thighs, slipping out of him and making him feel nauseous, evidence of his mistakes. The cognizance of what had happened was a thought too big for his skull to hold. It was pressing against the bone, making it throb, and he noticed his lungs deflating uncomfortably on themselves. Panic was rising. Apparently, he was not done with that yet.

Dave was right on the other side of the door, still in bed and unaware. John bit down on his cheek to keep any unwanted noises from escaping him.

“Yo―” A loud knocking sounded against the door, snapping John out of his trance. It was Dave’s voice. “Hurry up, man. You’ve been in there for, what? Twenty minutes now? And I got yet to hear the toilet flush, so no offense, but―”

”I’ll be out in a minute,” John rushed to say, knowing how shaky his voice sounded but unable to do anything about it. He had not realized time had passed so quickly. “I’ll be out in a minute. I just... I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Breakfast’s gon’ get cold.”

There was a hint of a joke in Dave’s words, but more than anything, there was hesitation. John could see the door handle to the bathroom turn just slightly, and no doubt did Dave have a hand on it. Swallowing around the lump in his throat again, John spoke again. ”Breakfast is cold.”

“What about eggs and bacon? That ain’t cold.”

”There are eggs and bacon?”

”No.”

“Then why even― It’s not morning.”

“There’s a thing called brunch, lovely concept, really. Made for those who are too embarrassed to admit they woke up too late to have breakfast within the socially accepted breakfast-eating-interval, and―”

”I’ll be out in a minute, okay?”

It was an interruption. Dave wet his lips, the corners of his mouth twitching at being denied to finish his sentences and be heard. The bluntness to John’s voice had him appeased, though, and even if the warmth of John’s body had left the bed awhile ago, it had still been nice. Sleeping side by side, time being watered down to nothing but the beating of John’s pulse, and the quiet being filled with the subtle sound of breathing. Dave hoped for more nights like that to come.

“Alright. Just hurry, okay?” he mumbled, words barely making it through the layer of the wooden door, but he heard a faint acknowledgment from John on the other side. He let it be, soon leaving the bedroom altogether. They were taking small steps. He could wait a little longer.

A little longer ticked away. Dave sat in the living room, eyes flickering to the clock time and time again. John was nowhere to be seen, still in the bedroom ― or worse yet, still in the bathroom, closing himself off to the world ― and Bro was not to be found, either. Dave had to wonder what had happened. He had handled John with a mean hand, he knew, fingers having closed so tightly around John’s neck was no doubt going to invoke a grudge. Temporary, hopefully. Most likely. John had slept beside him, after all. That had to mean forgiveness, for John to allow the very same hands that had bruised him to touch him again. Dave’s chest swelled at the thought of having earned John’s absolution. Even so, that pair of striking blue eyes had yet to show themselves. It was getting worrisome.

Daylight was slipping away, evening suddenly right at their doorstep, and Dave was still left to his own lonesome. It became apparent to him that John was unlikely to come out of their bedroom, and his brother was not like to somehow himself just yet either. It was not rare for the older man to disappear without a word, only giving some form of clarity as to where he had gone once he was back. When Dave had been but a child, the days he spent alone had been frightening. Every sound was oh so loud and unfamiliar as he could not tell the sound of a monster and a dripping faucet apart, all of it the same to him. Years passed, and with each day, the empty apartment did not seem as big and never ending. Still, it had felt like breathing for the first time the day Bro had taken him outside of those enclosing walls. Even as he had come home with blood on his hands at the age of ten, he was excited to go back out. To experience and to learn, to see and to touch. To feel things he never had. It was everything he had ever yearned for.

Or so he had thought, right until the moment he laid eyes on raven hair and blue eyes, a smile that could stretch for miles and strike through hearts of stone. A warmth and amity manifested in the form of a boy. In the form of John Egbert.

Dave had not meant for it to happen, but John became familiarity to him. Everywhere he went, there was John. Either steps ahead of him or immortalized by photographs. But now he no longer had to stay a safe distance away, now the safest thing was to be close, because if they were not close, it meant others would be. And _others_ could potentially hurt John. Dave would not let happen.

The thought was enough to get Dave to rise from his seat, but not enough to make him certain of what to do. Every bit of him wanted to go to John, seek the boy out and demand answers to the cluster of questions inside his head. Another more levelheaded part of him disagreed with his wants, though, arguing that John needed to come to him on his own. Patience is a virtue, they say. Bullshit.

Dave walked to the kitchen, opening a cupboard that groaned after years of use but no caring hand or maintenance. He grabbed a bowl from the shelf, closing the cupboard after before reaching inside a drawer, pulling out a box of cereal.  It was close to dinner time, after all. With a second thought, Dave set out a second bowl, filling it with cereal, too. One glance inside of the refrigerator, though, and he realized they needed one essential ingredient to building the cuisine that was cereal. Dave pulled out his phone.

yo. we got ourselves one dry situation without any milk in the house

Is that supposed to be an attempt at getting me to buy milk?

it wouldnt be an attempt if you would just do it

I'm working.

and my cornflakes are like the saharan desert without any goddamn milk, so you can stop by the grocery store on the way home

Let me rephrase. I’m working, as in I am currently elbow deep in some bastard’s guts, and you’re here asking me to do the groceries. Want me to tell them I had an accident in the soup aisle while browsing the diary section?

yeah

What the fuck is wrong with you?

i just want my milk, man. come on

Get it yourself.

i cant

Why?

i dont want to leave john alone

What are you, his mother?

shut up. hes just acting weird is all. i dont wanna leave him hanging like that

Get the milk yourself.

do you know what happened?

Kid's oversensitive. It’s a symptom of a chronic illness called “Being A Little Bitch”.

bro im serious

So am I.

what happened while i was gone?

Did he sleep with you last night?

what? what the fuck kind of question is that? dude i asked you a question first

Did he sleep with you last night?

ugh. yes. why?

Good. I’ll be back before midnight.

bro what the fuck

After having sent that last text repeatedly and gaining no response, Dave gave up. The two dry bowls of cereal were evidence of his defeat, as he doubted his brother was like to get any milk. Even if he did, it would be far too late. Dave waited, mustering up what little patience he could manage, and it proved just enough. Or perhaps it was just that two hours later, he fell asleep, and in dreams the concept of time does not apply.

When he woke, it was with a start. Eyes fluttered open reluctantly, glancing around the room. He had wound up back in the seat by the dinner table, and on the table in front of him were two bowls of cereal. And a carton of milk. Bro was home. Like always, it was an air of relief that came over Dave, though it was not as strong as it used to be. Just knowing that he was not alone soothed him, and now with John, he never had to worry about that. Not really. Although it felt lonelier than ever to have the two of them separated by the likes of a door. A piece of wood made only to divide space, and though it was but a few inches, the distance felt bigger.

Dave got up from his seat. The sound of the chair screeching against the floor stirred the place, and in the hallway to the kitchen appeared Bro. The man’s blond hair was damp, Dave could tell by the darkened color and shine to it, the way it stuck to Bro’s forehead.

“How’d it go?” Dave asked. He got a shrug in reply, but Bro took steps forward nonetheless, engaging without a word just yet. “Looks to me like it went messy. You don’t usually shower before… What time is it?”

A finger tapped against the glass of the digital watch attached to Bro’s wrist, and he came close enough for Dave to see the numbers as he passed by him to the kitchen.

“02:17. Damn.”

“You best clean up the drool on the table where you napped, Sleeping Ugly,” Bro mumbled as he strode to the fridge, reaching inside to scan through it. To his discontent, he found little to nothing in there. “If you had the time to sleep,” he continued while closing the fridge again. “You could’ve gone to get milk yourself.”

“We’ve had this discussion before, you know why―”

“And you haven’t stopped bein’ a lil bitch since then, I see.”        

 “Bro, quit being an ass. C’mon. It’s been a long day.”

“Says the guy who’s been sittin’ on his flat rump for the whole _long_ damn day. Some a’ us be out there workin’, whilst _others_ knock their meat around here at home.”

“I don’t fuckin’ knock my meat around—”

“Oh right, I forgot. Yer too busy throwin’ tantrums over nothin’ and storming off like Cinderella at the strike of midnight. Don’t even realize your own goddamn fairy godmother when she’s staring you right in the face.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dave barked back, temper rising. There was an edge to both their voices; Dave’s from having just woken up, his vocal taught and hoarse, and Bro from having just come back from work, worn out and shortsighted. Dave groaned, turning so that he could lean his weight against the kitchen counter. Not once did he turn his back on Bro in the process. He faced the man full frontal with every move.

“It’s supposed to mean that you don’t damn well appreciate all the shit you’re given.”

“ _You’re_ the fairy godmother?”

“ _I’m_ the fairy godmother. Who else would I fuckin’ be, huh? I’m the one clothing you, feeding you, giving you a place to sleep every night.”

“How did you know about that, anyways?”

Bro’s attention shifted at that, less focused on his own appetite and more on what Dave was saying. By the furrow of his brow, he did not fully make the connection between the words being said and Dave’s intentions. “ ‘xcuse me? What’s that s‘pposed to mean?”

“How did you know that John slept with me last night?”

Dave did not get an answer to that aside from a shrug. Bro was already making his way out of the kitchen before Dave had the chance to repeat his question, but he was not about to let the man go without getting some clarification. There was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, something that told him the truth was so painfully obvious he only had to open his eyes but a fraction. Yet he continued to act a blind man.   

“Bro, what did you do?” Dave insisted, following right behind his brother’s ankles. No response. “ _Bro,_ ” he sneered. “What did you _do_?”  

Only then did Bro turn around, looking down upon Dave with a cold gaze behind the lenses of his shades. Those amber eyes shined. Before disappearing into the privacy of his own room, Bro gave Dave but a short answer; “Nothin’ you wouldn’t have done.”


End file.
